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BOOK  FOR  GIRLS, 


IPIffi®§[£  Ml®  POETRY. 


B7     MRS.     L.     H.    SIGOURNEY. 


NEW-YORK: 
TURNER  &  HAYDEN,  10  JOHN  STREET. 

1845. 


Entered  according  to  act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1837,  by 
L.  H.  Sigournet,  in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court, 
for  the  Southern  District  of  New  York. 


CONTENTS 


PROSE. 

Education ? 

Memory , l2 

Order 19 

Children's  First  Walk  together 7 23 

The  Boy  and  his  Garden 26 

The  Summer  Sutt 28 

ThCEider-Duck  and  Bird  of  Paradise 32 

Lessons  in  the  Fields 36 

Easy  Studies 40 

Obedience '. 44 

The  Good  Daughter 48 

The  Sick 55 

The  Poor 59 

Ej-rly  Recollections 65 

The  Good  Sister ....... 71 

The  True  Friend 77 

The  Happy  Family., 81 

Letter  to  the  Females  of  Greece 87 

Hope  and  Memory 92 

The  Sleepless  Labourers 95 

Sunday-Salt 99 

Dreams 104 

Perseverance . 108 

Female  Energy 117 

.       Wife  of  the  Intemperate 124 

^^    u  I  have  seen  an  End  of  all  Perfection" 132 

n|    Mrs.  Elizabeth  Rowe 137 

*■*    Mrs.  Jerusha  Lathrop 143 

*■*  Miss  Hannah  More 152 

IT"  Mrs.  Martha  Laurens  Ramsay .«......*»<....*...»•«.•..  161 


A 


CONTENTS 


POETRY 

Teacher's  Excuse 172 

Lady-Bug  and  Ant 175 

Ark  and  Dove . 177 

To  a  Dying  Infant ISC 

Procrastination 131 

The  Sabbath ' 183 

Morning  Thoughts 184 

Birth-Day  Requests 187 

Exhibition  of  a  School  of  Young  Ladies 189 

Child  at  the  Mother's  Grave 191 

On  Meeting  Pupils  at  the  Communion  Table 193 

Death  of  a  Sunday  School  Scholar 195 

Sailor's  Hymn 197 

Father  and  his  Motherless  Children 199 

Scholar's  Tribute  to  an  Instructor 201 

Remember  me 203 

Recollections  of  an  Aged  Pastor 205 

Gratitude 208 

To  an  Absent  Child 211 

The  Sixth  Birth-day 212 

The  Fire-Side 214 

Alice ".. 216 

Louisa 219 

The  Old  Man 221 

Burial  of  the  Indian  Girl 224 

The  Creator  ever  Present 227 

The  Village 229 

The  Emigrant's  Daughter 233 

The  Mourner .236 

Farewell  of  the  Soul  to  the  Body 241 


PREFACE. 


To  read  well  is  a  high  accomplishment.  It 
te  not  only  graceful  in  a  female,  but  its  results 
rank  among  the  virtues.  It  enables  her  to  im- 
part both  instruction  and  pleasure.  She  may 
thus  make  the  evening  fireside  delightful,  or 
the  wintry  storm  pass  unheard.  She  may  com- 
fort the  sick,  and  cheer  the  darkness  of  the 
friend  whose  eye  age  has  dimmed,  and  instil 
into  the  unfolding  mind  lessons  of  wisdom. 
But  if  she  reads  ill,  she  does  injustice  to  the 
author,  to  her  hearers,  and  to  herself. 

Great  attention  should  be  devoted  to  the  art 
of  reading,  during  the  elementary  part  of  edu- 
cation. Wrong  habits,  then  formed,  are  ex- 
ceedingly difficult  to  correct.  Rapid,  confused 
elocution,  false  emphasis,  monotony  at  the  close 
of  sentences,  or  in  the  cadence  of  poetry,  if 
early  indulged,  will  often  be  found  adhesive 
through  life. 

Teachers  can  scarcely  impress  too  deeply 
upon  their  scholars,  that  the  first  step  towards 
good  reading,  is  to  be  understood.  This  pro- 
bably requires  more  time  and  care  than  to  read 
gracefully.  It  is  like  the  pedestal  to  the  co- 
lumn, and  must  be  safe  and  solid,  or  the  super- 
structure suffers.  An  audible  tone,  a  clear  ar- 
ticulation, a  correct  pronunciation  of  every 
word,  and  a  strict  regard  to  established  pauses, 
1* 


PREFACE. 

3d,  e 


must  be  enforced,  ere  the  pupil  ascends  to  a 
higher  gradation. 

Would  that  I  could  arouse  both  teacher  and 
scholar  to  greater  zeal  and  thoroughness  in  this 
branch  of  education.  I  wish  every  young  fe- 
male in  our  land,  who  enjoys  the  benefit  of 
scholastic  training,  might  persevere  in  the  art 
of  reading,  until  she  is  able  to  convey  the  de- 
licate shades  of  thought,  of  the  most  refined 
writer,  clearly  and  agreeably  to  the  mind  of  an- 
other. 

I  have  myself  been  a  teacher.  Some  of  the 
happiest  years  of  my  life  were  thus  spent. 
Henceforth,  all  teachers  and  all  scholars  are  to 
me  as  friends.  Especially  am  I  interested  in 
the  young  of  my  own  sex.  For  them  this  vo- 
lume has  been  framed,  on  the  principle  of  com- 
bining with  the  accomplishment  of  reading, 
sentiments  that  are  feminine  in  their  character, 
and  knowledge  that  enters  into  the  elements  of 
woman's  duty.  May  it  be  to  them  as  the  voice 
of  a  friend,  and  continue  to  speak  words  of  in- 
struction and  love,  long  after  the  hand  that  pre- 
pared it  shall  moulder  in  the  grave. 

L.  H.  S. 

Hartford,,  Conn.,  Dec.  1,  1837. 


THE    GIRL'S 


READING-BOOK 


EDUCATION. 


What  is  a  good  education  ?  We  hear  much  about 
it.  Who  will  tell  us  what  it  is?  Every  child  in 
school  expects  to  obtain  it.  But  it  is  necessary  that 
they  should  first  know  what  it  means. 

Is  it  to  get  lessons  w«ll,  and  to  excel  in  every 
study?  This  is  a  part,  but  not  all.  Some  make 
great  progress  for  a  Time,  and  then  become  indolent. 
Others  are  distinguished  while  they  go  to  school, — 
but  when  they  leave  it,  cease  to  improve. 

Is  it  a  knowledge  of  books  ?  Yes,  and  something 
more.  It  is  possible  to  possess  learning,  and  be 
ignorant  of  necessary  things.  There  was  a  lady 
who  read  many  books,  yet  did  not  know  if  her  dress 
was  in  a  proper  condition,  and  could  not  always  find 
her  way  home,  when  she  went  abroad. 

Is  it  to  cultivate  the  intellect  ?  This  is  not  enough. 
It  must  also  strengthen  the  moral  principles,  and 
regulate  the  affections.  It  must  fit  for  the  peculiar 
duties  that  devolve  upon  us.  It  must  keep  in  just 
balance,  and  bring  forth  to  healthful  action,  all  the 
powers  that  the  Creator  has  given  us. 


8  THE  GIRL'S  READING-BOOK. 

A  good  education,  is  that  which  prepares  us  for 
our  future  sphere  of  action.  A  warrior  or  a  states- 
man, require  a  different  kind  of  training  from  a 
mother,  or  the  instructress  of  a  school.  A  lady  who 
has  many  accomplishments,  yet  is  deficient  in  the 
science  of  housekeeping,  has  not  been  well  educated. 

A  good  education  makes  us  contented  with  our 
lot.  This,  was  what  an  ancient  philosopher  said, 
made  him  happy  in  an  obscure  abode,  and  when  he 
was  alone,  talked,  with  him.  A  restless,  and  com- 
plaining temper,  proves  a  bad  education. 

A  good  education  is  a  fortune  in  itself.  I  do  not 
mean  that  it  will  always  secure  wealth.  But  it  brings 
something  better  than  the  gold  that  perishes.  For 
this  may  be  suddenly  lost.  Fire  may  consume  it. 
Water  may  overwhelm  it.  The  tempest  may  destroy 
it.     The  thief  may  take  it  away. 

But  that  knowledge  which  enriches  the  mind 
which  moderates  its  desires,  which  teaches  to  make 
a  right  use  of  time.,  and  to  promote  the  happiness  of 
others,  is  superior  to  the  elements.  Fire,  air,  earth,1 
and  water,  have  no  power  over  it.  It  can  rule  them 
as  servants.  It  fears  neither  rust  nor  robber.  It 
walks  with  us  into  the  vale  of  years,  and  does  not 
leave  us  till  we  die. 

What  a  great  evil  is  ignorance  !  We  can  see  this 
by  the  state  of  those  countries  where  it  prevails, 
The  history  of  past  times  will  show  us  how  misera- 
ble were  their  inhabitants, — how  unfit  to  judge  for 
themselves, — how  stubborn  in  wickedness, — how 
low  in  their  pleasures, — how  ready  to  be  the  prey  of 
the  designing. 


9 

Look  at  the  man  who  can  neither  read  nor  write. 
How  confused  are  his  ideas !  How  narrow  his  con- 
ceptions !  How  fixed  his  prejudices !  How  depend- 
ent is  he  on  others  to  convey  his  sentiments,  and  to 
interpret  their  own !  How  liable  to  mistakes !  How 
incapable  of  forming  just  and  liberal  opinions  ! 

Ignorance  has  been  truly  called  the  mother  of 
error.  When  Galileo  first  taught  the  true  motion  of 
the  earth  round  the  sun,  he  was  treated  as  a  criminal, 
and  thrown  into  a  dungeon.  When  Columbus  revealed 
his  plan  of  searching  for  another  continent,  he  was 
threatened  with  imprisonment. 

When  Captain  Smith  was  taken  by  the  North 
American  Indians,  and  sent  a  letter  to  his  distant 
friends,  the  chiefs  met  to  consult  about  the  mystery 
of  this  "  speaking  leaf,"  and  thought  that  the  man 
who  wrote  it  was  a  magician,  and  must  be  punished. 

If  defects  in  intellectual  education  lead  to  such 
evils, — defects  in  the  education  of  the  heart  are  still 
more  deplorable.  Look  at  the  child  whose  moral 
principles  have  been  neglected.  Has  he  a  regard 
for  truth  ?  Does  he  shrink  at  dishonesty  ?  Is  his 
conscience  quick  to  warn  him  of  a  wrong  motive  ? 
Does  he  obey  his  parents  ?  0oes  he  love  his  teach- 
ers 1  Is  he  anxious  to  understand  and  keep  the  law  . 
of  God  ? 

A  good  education  is  another  name  for  happiness. 
We  all  desire  to  be  happy,  and  should  be  willing  to 
take  pains  to  learn  how.  He  who  wishes  to  acquire 
a  trade  or  a  profession, — to  build  a  house,  or  to  culti- 
vate a  farm,  or  to  guide  a  vessel  over  the  sea,  must  ex- 
pect to  work  as  an  apprentice,  or  to  •  ^idy  as  a  scholar. 


10  THE    GIRL'S    READING-BOOK. 

Shall  we  not  devote  time  and  toil  to  learn  how  to 
be  happy  ?  It  is  a  science  which  the  youngest  child 
may  begin,  and  the  wisest  man  is  never  weary  of  \ 
If  we  attain  the  knowledge  of  many  languages,  and 
the  fame  of  great  learning,  yet  fail  in  that  which 
makes  the  heart  happy  and  the  life  good, — our 
knowledge  is  but  "sounding  brass,  and  a  tinkling 
cymbal." 

The  objects  to  be  kept  in  view  by  all  who  seek  a 
good  education,  are  to  discharge  every  duty, — to 
make  others  happy,  and  to  love  good  things.  May 
they  not  be  compared  to  three  steps  leading  to  a 
beautiful  house  where  you  wish  to  go  1  Each  one 
that  you  ascend,  brings  you  nearer  to  the  threshold. 

The  temple  of  happiness  in  this  world,  is  the 
temple  of  goodness.  And  the  temple  of  happiness 
in  the  world  to  come,  is  heaf  en.  There,  all  the  good 
of  every  nation  meet  and  dwell  together  forever. 
These  temples  communicate  with  each  other,  and  a 
right  education  is  the  way  of  entrance  to  both. 

The  different  parts  of  a  good  education  may  be 
called  the  alphabet  of  happiness.  And  from  this 
alphabet  is  formed  a  language  for  angels.  That  is 
but  a  lame  education^hich  stops  short  of  a  higher 
world. 

I  seem  to  hear  some  little  voice  asking,  "when 
will  a  good  education  be  finished? — Will  it  be  finish- 
ed when  we  have  done  going  to  school,  or  are  grown 
up  women  V9  I  tell  you  it  will  never  be  finished, 
until  you  die.  He  alone,  who  bids  the  pulse  stop, 
and  the  cold  heart  1 
say  "  it  is  finished." 


THE    GIRL'S   READING-BOOK.  11 

This  whole  life  is  but  one  great  school.  From  the 
cradle  to  the  grave,  we  are  all  scholars.  The  voices 
of  those  we  love,  and  the  wisdom  of  past  ages,  and 
our  own  experience,  are  our  teachers.  Afflictions 
give  us  discipline.  The  spirits  of  departed  saints 
whisper  to  us, — "  Come  up  hither." 

God's  holy  Word  is  our  code  of  laws.  He  com- 
mands us  there  to  "  give  him  our  heart, — to  remem- 
ber him  in  the  days  of  our  youth."  May  we  go  to 
his  heaven,  as  to  our  father's  home,  when  school  is 
done,  and  the  little  hour-glass  of  our  days  and  nights 
shall  be  turned  no  more. 


-;,■>' 


MEMORY. 


"  I  forgot  to  get  my  lesson  this  morning,"  said  a  "* 
pupil  to  her  teacher.     "Did  you  forget  to  come  to 
breakfast  ?"     "  No,  Ma'am,  I  did  not."    "  Then  your 
body  has  a  better  appetite  for  food,  than  your  mind 
for  knowledge. 

"  If  you  were  sick  you  would  not  wish  for  break- 
fast. You  would  avoid  the  sight  of  food.  Perhaps  ' 
your  parents  would  send  for  a  physician.  He  would 
give  you  medicine.  He  would  seek  to  remove  the 
causes  that  had  destroyed  your  appetite.  What 
medicine  will  you  take  to  restore  the  health  of  your 
mind  ? 

"  Did  you  not  take  some  pains  to  prepare  yourself 
for  breakfast  %  You  arose,  and  washed,  and  dressed, 
and  said  your  prayers,  and  were  ready  to  take  your 
seat  at  the  table.  Did  you  bestow  equal  care  on  the 
lessons  ot  the  day  %  For  it  seems  you  can  remem- 
ber to  take  pains  when  you  choose." 

"  I  cannot  remember  the  sermon,"  said  a  boy  to 
his  father,  "  and  my  Sunday-school  lesson  is  too 
long."  "  How  came  you  to  remember  the  story  that 
was  told  you  the  other  evening,  and  the  adventures 
of  Robinson  Crusoe,  which  I  heard  you  relate  ?  It  • 
seems  you  can  recollect  what  you  like,  even  if  it  is 
long.  Am  I  to  conclude  that  you  prefer  amusement 
to  religious  instruction?" 

"  Why  did  you  not  rise  and  place  a  chair  for  your 
grandfather  when  he  came  in  ?"  said  a  lady  to  a  little 
girl.  "  I  forgot  it,  mother."  "  How  came  you  to 
remember  to  ask  me  for  a  new  dress  yesterday  V 


J  he  girl's  reading-book.  13 

'Because  you  told  me  last  summer,  that  I  should 
have  it  this  spring." 

"  Have  I  not  also  told  you  to  pay  this  mark  of 
respect  to  your  aged  grandfather  whenever  he  en- 
tered the  room  %  Yet  you  forget  it,  though  it  has 
been  often  repeated.  But  you  remembered  the 
promise  of  a  new  dress  which  was  made  six  months 
ago.  Is  the  love  of  dress  stronger  than  the  love  of 
duty?" 

Memory  furnishes  a  key  to  unlock  the  secret  cabi- 
net of  feeling  and  principle.  It  reveals  the  hidden 
springs  of  character.  If  you  forget  moral  duties, 
the  memory  of  the  heart  is  to  blame.  For  the 
heart  has  a  memory  as  well  as  the  mind.  Is  the 
memory  of  your  heart  diseased  ?  Seek  to  that  great 
Physician  who  made  the  heart. 

Memory  is  a  criterion  of  moral  taste.  For  if  we 
naturally  cherish  those  trains  of  thought  which 
best  please  us.  and  if  those  which  are  most  frequent- 
ly cherished  leave  the  deepest  impressions,  then 
what  we  remember  best,  will  shew  the  capacity  and 
temper  of  our  mind. 

We  see  one  possessing  an  accurate  knowledge  of 
historical  facts,  with  their  dates  and  eras,  and  we  say 
he  has  a  taste  for  history.  Another  remembers  nar« 
rative  or  poetry,  and  we  say  he  has  a  taste  for  works 
of  imagination.  Another  remembers  fashions, 
amusements,  pieces  of  scandal.  Do  they  not  each 
know,  that  to  an  attentive  observer,  they  are  hold- 
ing up  a  mirror  of  their  mind  ? 

But  if  it.  is  true,  that  we  can  remember  what  we 
please,  and  when  we  please,  can  we  ^so  remember 
2 


14  THE   GIRL'S  READING-BOOK. 

as  mucn,  as  we  please  ?  Not  without  labour.  The 
quantity  of  what  we  remember,  depends  as  much 
on  industry,  as  the  quality  does  on  the  taste  and 
turn  of  mind. 

Do  you  find  it  difficult  to  remember  what  you 
study  ?  Quicken  the  motive.  If  a  horse  is  dull,  the 
rider  touches  him  with  the  spur.  Believe  that  your 
memory  may  be  equally  under  your  own  control. 
But  you  must  take  pains  to  acquire  that  control. 

Think  of  the  loss  that  you  sustain  in  devoting 
time  to  the  acquisition  of  knowledge,  yet  suffering 
that  knowledge  to  escape.  Suppose  a  farmer,  after 
labouring  through  the  season,  should  neglect  to  mow 
his  grass,  or  to  reap  his  wheat  after  it  had  ripened, 
or  to  gather  his  corn  into  the  granary.  Suppose  a 
merchant  should  neglect  to  balance  the  accounts  of 
iJhe  year,  or  to  call  in  what  was  due,  or  to  invest  his 
^surplus  money  where  it  would  be  safe  and  profitable  ? 
Would  you  not  say  that  both  the  farmer  and  the  mer- 
chant were  exceedingly  unwise  ?  Yet  you  are  more 
so,  if  you  go  to  school  and  neglect  to  store  the  trea- 
sures of  knowledge.  For  to  you,  there  can  be  no  se- 
cond season  of  youth,  in  which  to  glean  the  sheaves 
you  have  neglected  to  gather,  or  the  gold  which 
should  have  been  locked  in  memory's  store-house 
for  the  winter  of  age. 

Sometimes  you  say  that  you  cannot  remember. 
Is  it  true?  If  it  is,  you  will  always  be  inferior  to 
those  who  can.  You  will  be  ruled  by  them,  as  a 
blind  person  is  subject  to  those  who  see.  Are  you 
willing  it  should  be  so?  If  not.  open  the  eyes  of 
your  mind,  and  take  good  heed  of  what  is  written 


THE    GIRL'S    READING-BOOK.  15 

in  useful  books,  and  of  all  that  passes  in  the  temple 
of  science. 

It  is  not  to  scholars  alone,  that  the  retentive  pow- 
er is  important.  '  Think  of  a  housekeeper  without  a 
memory, — running  hither  and  thither, — forgetting 
her  own  directions,  and  not  able  to  find  the  articles 
which  she  daily  needs.  Would  not  her  servants 
take  advantage  of  her,  and  even  her  neighbours  des- 
pise her? 

Is  it  indeed  true  that  you  have  no  memory? 
Then  your  mind  is  a  cripple.  Put  it  on  crutches, 
and  do  with  it  as  well  as  you  can.  But  do  not  pro- 
claim its  infirmities.  Do  not  say  I  have  forgotten, 
and  feel  no  shame.  You  do  not  like  to  have  your 
faults  published.  At  least  you  are  not  bound  to  pro- 
claim them  yourself, 

Let  us  rather  believe  that  you  have  a  good  memo- 
ry, or  at  least  that  you  wiH  take  pains  to  make  it  so. 
If  you  desired  a  boy  to  be  active  and  healthy,  would 
you  confine  him  to  the  house  and  to  walk  always  on 
a  carpet?  Would  you  not  say  to  him,  "go,  and 
climb  the  rocks,  and  work  in  the  open  air."  So,  give 
your  memory  daily  exercise,  and  do  not  shrink  from 
that  which  is  severe. 

When  you  read  or  hear  what  you  wish  to  remem- 
ber, think  of  nothing  else.  Fix  your  attention,  till 
you  have  done  studying  or  listening.  Think  it  over, 
and  repeat  it  to  yourself,  till  it  is  well  committed. 
If  it  i3  a  lesson,  be  prepared  to  recite  it  without 
mistake.  If  it  is  a  lecture,  or  a  sermon,  or  any  thing 
addressed  to  the  ear,  speak  of  it  to  others,  till  it  is 
rendereG  zamiliar  to  yourself! 


16  THE    GIRL'S   READING-BOOK. 

Every  night,  before  you  sleep,  review  what  you 
have  learned  through  the  day.  At  the  close  of  every 
week,  call  memory  to  account  for  what  you  have 
entrusted  to  her.  Make  brief  hints  in  a  note-book 
of  the  most  important  subjects,  for  future  use.  At 
the  close  of  each  month  compare  its  gatherings 
with  those  of  its  predecessor. 

At  the  close  of  the  year,  or  on  your  birth-day, 
read  attentively  in  your  note-book,  what  you  have 
treasured  through  that  year.  Summon  memory  to 
draw  the  hints  out  at  large,  and  embody  them  in 
language.  Make  a  new  note-book  for  the  coming 
year,  and  write  it  neatly  and  legibly,  that  you  may 
read  it  easily  if  you  live  to  be  old,  and  your  eyes 
are  dim. 

You  need  not  confine  this  habit  of  writing  brief 
notes,  or  texts  for  memory,  to  the  time  that  you  at- 
tend school.  It  would  be  jvell  to  continue  it  through 
life.  For  as  long  as  we  live,  we  have  the  privilege 
of  being  learners,  and  this  life  is  a  school  in  which 
we  fit  for  a  higher  state  of  being. 

The  hints  which  you  will  thus  accumulate,  will 
furnish  good  subjects  of  conversation  with  your 
family  when  you  have  one,  and  aid  you  in  teaching 
your  children.  They  will  be  as  the  book  of  recipes 
to  a  housekeeper,  to  which  she  refers  for  the  comfort 
of  those  she  loves.  They  will  supply  memory  with 
texts  from  which  she  may  preach  many  a  profitable 
sermon  when  her  pulpit  is  the  arm-chair  by  the 
fire-side,  and  her  audience  a  group  of  listening 
grandchildren. 

When  you  find  iu  your  lessons,  or  in  books  that 


THE    GIRL'S   READING-BOOK.  17 

you  read,  trains  of  thought  that  are  difficult  to  re- 
member, class  them  with  some  recollections  tha'  are 
similar,  or  even  in  contrast.  Associate  them  with 
some  numerical  statement.  Cluster  them  like  grapes, 
when  you  give  them  into  the  hand  of  memory. 
Like  pearls  on  a  string,  they  will  be  less  liable  to  be 
lost,  than  when  scattered  abroad. 

I  once  heard  a  little  girl  say,  "  I  have  just  learned 
that  Jupiter  has  four  moons.  Now  I  will  remember 
it  by  joining  it  with  other  things  that  have  in  them 
the  number  four.  There  are  four  seasons,  four 
middle  states,  four  asteroids,  or  little  planets,  and 
the  other  thing  of  four,  shall  be  the  moons  of  Jupi- 
ter." The  child  had  discovered  the  principle  of 
numerical  association,  which  is  a  great  help  to 
memory. 

"  Romulus  slew  his  brother  Remus,"  said  a  little 
boy,  "  and  Cain  slew  his  brother  Abel.  The  first- 
born of  Eden  and  the  first  king  of  Rome,  were  fra- 
tricides. One  will  make  me  remember  the  other.' 
Here  was  resemblance  or  similitude  in  fact,  assisting 
the  memory.  Contrasted  images  may  also  be  so 
associated,  as  to  adhere  strongly  to  recollection. 

Count  no  toil  too  great,  that  will  give  vigour  to 
memory.  She  is  to  walk  with  you  as  a  companion 
through  life.  It  is  important  that  she  be  healthful 
and  fit  for  her  work.  She  is  the  keeper  of  know- 
ledge. The  wealth  of  the  mind  is  in  her  casket. 
She  has  power  over  the  fountains  of  pleasure,  and 
of  pain. 

But  she  has  still  an  higher  office.    Her  smile  can 
give  confidence  to  goodness,  and  enter  as  sunshine 
2* 


18  THE  GIRL'S  READING-BOOEU 

Into  the  soul.  Yet  dread  her  frown,  if  you  persist 
in  wrong  deeds  or  feelings.  She  is  a  fearful  repro- 
ver. She  is  in  league  with  conscience,  and  has 
power  to  lift  its  scourge. 

Memory  is  the  informer  at  the  bar  of  judgment, 
if  she  slumbers  here,  she  will  awake  there.  She 
will  stand  forth  and  bear  witness  of  you,  when  the 
[f  dead,  small  and  great,  stand  before  God,  and  the 
books  are  opened,  and  all  shall  be  judged  from  the 
things  that  are  written  in  the  books,  according  to 
their  works." 


THE  GIRL'S  READING-BOOK.  19 


ORDER, 


"  Mother,  will  you  please  to  tell  me  if  you  have 
seen  my  thimble  ?" — "  Martha,  I  thought  you  had  a 
place  for  your  thimble." — "  So  I  have,  dear  mother, 
but  it  does  not  happen  to  be  in  the  place." 

To  have  a  place  for  things,  and  not  keep  them  in 
it,  is  like  having  wise  laws,  and  paying  no  regard  to 
them.  A  nation  will  not  be  the  better  for  its  laws, 
unless  it  enforces  them  ;  nor  a  child  for  being  told  its 
duty,  unless  it  trys  to  obey. 

Martha's  fault,  was  a  want  of  order.  Her  work- 
ing-materials were  scattered  about  the  house.  She 
was  obliged  to  spend  much  time  in  searching  for 
them.  When  the  school-bell  rang,  some  of  her 
books  could  not  be  found.  Perhaps,  her  bonnet,  or 
shawl,  or  gloves,  were  mislaid. 

She  felt  ashamed  to  be  so  often  inquiring  for  what 
she  ought  to  have  kept  in  their  own  place.  So,  she 
sometimes  went  without  necessary  articles,  and  was 
unprepared  at  school,  or  looked  slovenly  in  the 
street. 

She  was  a  little  girl  of  a  good  disposition.  But 
this  fault  occasioned  her  to  be  much  blamed.  And 
instead  of  being  cheerful  with  a  consciousness  of 
right  conduct,  she  was  often  disgraced  and  unhappy. 

When  she  grew  up,  she  carried  these  careless 
habits  into  her  housekeeping.  Though  she  had  a 
kind  heart, there  were  disorder  and  discomfort  in  her 
family.  Nothing  was  in  its  right  place.  Her  work 
was  done  by  the  hardest,  for  want  of  the  proper 
materials. 


9  w 
20  THE  GIRL'S  READING-BOOK. 

She  was  always  in  a  hurry.  This  is  an  evil  which 
comes  upon  those,  who  have  not  the  spirit  of  order.* 
Her  countenance,  which  used  to  be  pleasant,  soon 
wore  a  troubled  and  'bewildered  expression.  Wrin 
kles  came  over  her  forehead,  before  it  was  time  to 
be  old. 

Though  she  was  naturally  amiable,  this  sad  fault 
spoiled  her  temper.  Her  children  imitated  her,  and 
kept  none  of  their  things  in  the  right  place.  One 
would  be  heard  complaining  that  a  hat  or  cloak 
could  not  be  found,  and  another  bewailing  a  lost 
r*oll,  or  broken  play-things. 

The  mother  fretted  loudly  at  her  little  ones,  for 
faults  that  grew  out  of  her  own  want  of  order.  She 
had  a  cousin,  whose  name  was  Mary.  They  lived 
near  each  other,  and  were  of  the  same  age.  When 
they  were  young,  they  often  played  together,  and 
sat  on  the  same  bench  at  school. 

Mary  took  good  care  of  all  that  was  entrusted 
to  her.  When  she  had  done  sewing,  her  needle 
was  returned  to  the  needle-case,  and  her  thimble 
and  scissors  to  the  work-basket.  Her  knitting  was 
neatly  rolled,  and  replaced  in  its  bag. 

Her  garments  were  folded,  and  laid  in  the  draw- 
ers and  trunks  where  they  belonged.  Her  bonnet 
was  hung  in  the  spot  allotted  to  it,  as  soon  as  she 
entered  the  house,  and  her  school-books  laid  on  that 
part  of  the  shelf,  which  she  was  permitted  to  call 
her  own. 

At  school,  her  pens  and  ink  were  in  good  order, 
and  she  never  blotted  her1  paper,  or  her  desk.  She 
had  no  need  to  borrow,  and  if  it  had  been  dark,  she 


THE  GIRL'S  READING-BOOK.  21 

could  have  laid  her  hand  upon  all  her  things, — for 
she  remembered  their  places,  and  knew  that  they 
were  there. 

She  had  fewer  things  than  her  cousin  Martha,  be- 
cause her  parents  were  not  so  rich.  But  she  had 
i$ore  that  were  ready  for  use.  Her  clothes  lasted 
longer,  and  looked  more  neatly.  For  she  had  been 
taught  to  mend  them,  the  moment  that  they  needed 
it,  and  to  fold  each  garment  when  she  took  it  off  at 
night. 

When  she  had  a  house  of  her  own,  every  article 
in  it  had  a  place,  and  all  who  used  it,  were  required 
to  put  it  there.  One  of  her  first  rules  to  her  child- 
ren when  very  young — was,  "a  place  for  every 
thing ; '  and  every  thing  in  its  place."  And  she 
obliged  them  to  obey  this  rule.  So  her  family  were 
in  order,  and  its  daily  labour  went  on  like  clock- 
work. 

Her  countenance  was  pleasant  and  peaceful,  like 
one  who  does  right.  And  though  she  was  not  as 
handsome  as  Martha,  it  was  more  agreeable  to  look 
at  her,  because  she  was  never  in  a  hurry. 

Her  quietness  of  mind  seemed  to  proceed  from  a 
sense  of  justice,  or  of  doing  her  duty  even  to  inani- 
mate things:  for  we  owe  a  duty  to  every  article  in. 
our  possession,  and  to  every  utensil  with  which  we 
work;  the  duty  of  keeping  them  in  order,  and  a  good 
condition. 

Sometimes,  when  I  have  called  on  these  cousins, 
and  found  one  fretting  and  bustling  about,  and  the 
other  placid  and  happy  in  her  industry,  it  has  re- 


22  the  girl's  reading-book. 

minded  me  of  a  picture,  that  I  once  saw  when  I 
was  a  child. 

It  was  called  the  picture  of  the  sisters  of  Bethany. 
You  will  remember  that  their  names  were  the  same 
as  those  of  the  two  cousins,  Martha  and  Mary.  One, 
with  a  complaining,  care-worn  face,  seemed  indeed 
"cumbered  with  much  serving;"  the  other  wore 
that  sweet,  peaceful  smile,  which  said  plainer  than 
words,  that  she  had  chosen  the  "  good  part." 

And  in  visiting  many  families,  both  in  the  city 
and  country,  I  have  observed  that  order  and  indus- 
try, were  the  two  hands  by  which  a  housekeeper 
takes  hold  of  her  work,  and  makes  the  members  of 
her  household  comfortable. 


«    * 


THE  GIRL'S  READING-BOOK. 


THE  CHILDREN'S  FIRST  WALK.  TOGETHER. 

They  passed  together,  out  of  their  father's  gate,  a 
little  girl  and  boy.  Their  quick  steps  were  short 
and  unequal,  as  if  they  had  trodden  only  on  the 
nursery-carpet,  or  the  smooth  graver  walk  of  the 
garden. 

They  took  their  way  along  the  village  street.  It 
was  bordered  with  fresh  grass.  They  Were  pleased 
that  it  swelled  into  little  mounds  and  again  descend- 
ed,— and  they  thought  every  hillock  was  a  mountain. 

They  admired  the  daisies,  and  king-cups, — and 
when  a  robin  flew  by,  they  said, — "  Bird,  are  these 
your  flowers  ? — may  we  pick  some  of  them  ?"  Then 
they  discovered  a  small  brook,  that  went  gurgling 
along,  and  stood  wondering  upon  its  pleasant  banks. 

The  sister's  arm  was  over  the  neck  of  her  brother. 
She  was  the  eldest  one.  And  tenderly  she  watched 
over  him.  If  the  swift  wheel  rushed  by,  or  the 
wide-horn'd  ox  seemed  to  press  too  near,  or  the  dog 
with  open  mouth  paused  as  if  regarding  him,  the 
same  motherly  care  sat  upon  her  sweet  brow,  as 
will  hereafter  take  root  there,  when  she  rocks  the 
cradle  of  her  own  babe. 

The  bold,  beautiful  boy  was  glad  to  be  free.  He 
often  looked  back,  till  he  saw  that  neither  nurse  or 
servant  followed.  Then  he  tossed  his  white  arms 
high  over  his  head,  and  shouted  out  his  first  joy  ol 
liberty. 

But  there  was  an  eye  that  followed  them.  It 
never  lost  sight  of  them  a  moment,  until  they  seem 
ed  but  as  specks,  far  away,  among  the  green  trees. 


24  the  girl's  reading-book. 

It  was  the  eye  of  a  mother,  and  in  her  heart  she 
said,  "  can  any  evil  come  to  those  so  fair  and  inno* 
cent  ?    Will  not  their  very  purity  be  their  protec 
tion?     Surely,  angels  will  'bear  them  up  in  their 
hands,  lest  they  dash  their  foot  against  a  stone.' " 

Then  she  mused  further,  and  continued  speaking, 
though  none  were  near  to  answer.  "  Not  long,  not 
long,  can  ye  travel  thus  together, — so  lovely,  so 
unharmed.  There  are  snares  and  thorns  for  every 
pilgrim,  in  the  path  of  life. 

"  Neither  may  ye  walk  thus,  side  by  side, — loving 
as  with  one  heart.  Ye  must  be  divided.  Who  can 
tell  your  different  paths?  None,  save  He  to  whom 
the  mother  ever  lifteth  her  heart. 

"  But  at  one  point  ye  will  arrive.  At  the  lonely 
tomb.  There  will  ye  lie  down,  and  rise  up  no  more. 
Whether  on  the  wide  waters,  or  the  far  western 
prairies,  where  the  bear,  and  the  hunter,  and  the  fur- 
trader  dwell;  or  beneath  Indian  skies,  where  the 
gold  ripens  ;  or  amid  the  rude  northern  seas,  where 
the  harpooner  pierces  the  whale; — to  one  place  ye 
must  come — to  the  grave,  your  last  bed. 

Little  daughter,  what  shall  be  thy  lot  1  To  love, 
and  to  bear  life's  burdens,  with  a  troubled,  yet  faith- 
ful spirit?  Methinks  I  see  thee  nursing  thine  own 
infant,  as  I  have  nursed  thee,  stooping  down  to  catch 
its  fervent  breath,  as  I  have  watched  sleepless  by  thy 
side,  when  sickness  came. 

"  Wilt  thou  sit  at  last,  with  thy  thin,  white  locks, 
teaching  lessons  of  wisdom  to  thy  children's  chil- 
dren? Wilt  thou  lift  thy  dim  eye  to  heaven,  and 
charge  them  to  seek  Him  early,  who  giveth  strength 


the   girl's  READING-BOOK.      '  25 

when  flesh  and  heart  fail,  and  when  the  tottering 
feet  enter  the  dark  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death  ? 

"  Or  art  thou  to  be  cut  down  in  thy  blossom,  in  the 
faint  green  of  thine  unfolding  leaves  1  Shall  thy 
mother  lay  thee  in  thy  last  cold  bed,  and  come  night- 
ly to  weep  the^s  1  Shall  the  hands  that  cherished 
thee  in  the  cradle,  plant  a  young  white  rose  on  thy 
turf  pillow,  an  emblem  of  thy  simple  innocence  1 
Who  can  tell?" 

The  mother  looked  upward  and  said,  "  Thon,  God, 
knowest."  And  when  she  had  prayed,  there  came  a 
trusting  smile  over  her  countenance,  which  seemed 
to  say  that  her  dear  ones  were  his,  and  that  he  loved 
them,  and  would  do  no  wrong  to  them,  or  to  her. 

Then  she  heard  the  sweet  voices  of  her  children 
returning,  like  the  chirping  of  young  birds,  who  have 
newly  ventured  from  their  nest.  And  she  went  forth 
to  welcome  Jhem,  and  kissed  their  bright,  ruddy 
cheeks,  rejoicing  in  them,  and  in  Him  who  gave 
them. 

3 


26  the  girl's  reading-book. 


THE  BOY  AND  HIS  GARDEN. 

A  child  held  in  his  hand  a  slight,  leafless  shoot. 
It  was  like  a  supple,  green  wand.  Yet  it  had  br;en 
newly  cut  from  the  parent  tree,  and 'life  was  secretly 
stirring  in  its  little  heart. 

He  sought  out  a  sheltered  spot  in  the  piece  of 
ground  that  he  called  his  own.  He  planted  it  there 
in  the  moist  earth.  He  came  often  to  visit  it,  and 
when  the  rains  of  summer  were  withheld,  he  watered 
it  at  the  cool  hour  of  sunset. 

The  sap,  which  is  the  blood  of  plants,  began  to 
circulate  through  its  tender  vessels.  A  tiny  root, 
like  a  thread,  crept  downwards.  Soon,  around  the 
head,  there  burst  forth  a  garland  of  pale  green 
leaves. 

Seasons  passed  over  it,  and  it  became  a  small  tree. 
As  fast  as  its  branches  came  forth,  they  drooped 
downwards  to  the  earth.  The  cheering  sun  smiled 
on  them, — the  happy  birds  sang  to  them  :  but  they 
drooped  still. 

"  Tree,  why  art  thou  always  sad  and  drooping?— 
Am  I  not  kind  unto  thee?  Do  not  the  showers  visit 
thee,  and  sink  deep  to  refresh  thy  root  ?  Hast  thou 
a  sorrow  at  thy  heart  ?"  But  it  answered  not.  And 
as  it  grew  on,  it  drooped  lower  and  lower.  For  it 
was  a  weeping  willow. 

The  boy  cast  a  seed  into  his  soft  garden  mould. 
When  the  time  of  flowers  came,  a  strong  budding 
stalk  stood  there,  with  coarse,  serrated  leaves.  Soon 


the  girl's  reading-book.  27 

there  came  forth  a  full,  red  poppy,  glorying  in  its 
gaudy  dress. 

At  its  feet  grew  a  purple  violet,  which  no  hand 
had  planted  or  cherished.  It  lived  lovingly  with  the 
wild  mosses,  and  the  frail  flowers  of  the  grass,  not 
counting  itself  more  excellent  than  they. 

"Large  poppy,  why  dost  thou  spread  out  thy 
scarlet  robe  so  widely,  and  drink  up  the  sunbeams 
from  my  lonely  violet?"  But  the  flaunting  flower 
replied  not  to  him  who  planted  it. 

It  unfolded  its  rich  silk  mantle  still  more  broadly, 
as  though  it  would  fain  have  stifled  its  humbler 
neighbour.  Yet  nothing  hindered  the  fragrance  of 
the  meek  violet,  nursing  its  infant  buds. 

The  little  child  was  troubled,  and  at  the  hour  of 
sleep  he  told  his  mother  of  the  tree  that  continually 
wept,  and  of  the  plant  that  overshadowed  its  neigh- 
bour. She  took  him  on  her  knee,  and  spoke  so  ten- 
derly in  his  ear,  that  he  remembered  her  words 
when  he  became  a  man. 

"  There  are  some  who,  like  thy  willow,  are  weepers 
all  their  lives  long,  though  they  dwell  in  pleasant 
places,  and  the  fair  skies  shine  upon  them.  And 
there  are  others,  who,  like  the  poppy  that  thou  didst 
reprove,  are  haughty  in  heart,  and  despise  the  hum- 
ble, whom  God  regardeth. 

"Be  thou  not  like  them,  my  gentle  child.  But 
keep  rather  in  thy  heart  the  sweet  spirit  of  the  low- 
ly violet,  that  thou  mayest  come  at  last  to  that  bless- 
ed place  which  pride  cannot  enter  and  where  weep- 
ing is  never  known." 


THE  GIRL'S  READING-BOOK. 


THE  SUMMER  SUN. 


The  eastern  sky  is  rich  with  prevailing  light. 
What  a  beautiful  saffron  colour  marks  the  horizon. 
Now,  it  spreads  more  widely  around.  In  one  spot 
there  is  peculiar  brightness.  A  few  rays  shoot  up, 
as  heralds  of  some  distinguished  guest.  Then  the 
glorious  sun  appears,  the  eye  of  the  world. 

It  is  not  to  our  earth  alone  that  he  dispenses  light 
and  heat.  Other  planets  rejoice  in  his  brightness. 
Moving  around  these  are  still  smaller  bodies,  like 
children  with  their  parents.  The  sun  has  a  large 
and  beautiful  family.  Is  he  not  like  a  patriarch  with 
his  eleven  children,  and  his  eighteen  grandchil- 
dren? 

He  sits  on  the  chief  seat  among  them,  cheering 
them  with  his  gifts.  Do  you  know  some  bountiful 
person  making  the  hearts  of  others  glad?  Have 
you  a  benevolent  friend  whose  warm  smile  makes 
you  happy?  They  may  be  compared  to  the  sun 
"  rejoicing  in  the  east."  Let  them  also  remind  you* 
of  Him  who  made  the  sun,  in  "  whom  the  outgoings 
of  the  morning  and  of  the  evening  rejoice?" 

Hark,  the  birds  sing.  Some  soar  high  with  a 
graceful  movement,  into  the  clear,  blue  sky.  The 
flowers,  sparkling  with  dew,  lift  their  bright  eyes  to 
their  Benefactor.  A  fresh  and  grateful  odour  goes 
up  from  the  green  forests.  Every  plant  and  leaf 
seems  to  partake  of  a  new  joy. 

There  was  a  statue  in  ancient  Egypt  called  the 
statue  of  Memnon,  which  was  said  at  sunrise  to  utter 


the  girl's  reading-book.  29 

an  articulate  sound.  So  ought  the  most  silent  and 
cold  heart,  to  speak  forth  praise  for  the  gift  of  every 
pleasant  morning. 

Turn  to  your  protector  in  heaven,  who  has  given 
you  the  repose  of  sleep.  Kneel  and  thank  him  for 
his  care.  Many  through  this  day  will  suffer  pain 
and  sickness.  Ask  him  to  keep  you  in  health  and 
usefulness.  Many  will  weep  over  dying  friends. 
Ask  him  to  hold  in  life  those  whom  you  love. 

Some,  ere  the  setting  of  this  sun,  will  fall  into 
temptation.  Ask  him  to  preserve  you  in  the  path 
of  duty  and  of  peace.  Some  will  be  taken  out  of 
the  world.  Should  you  be  of  that  number,  ask  him 
to  make  you  fit  to  enter  heaven.  He  alone  is  able 
to  do  these  things  for  you.  His  blessing  is  like  the 
sun  to  the  plants  of  virtue  in  your  soul. 

Be  sure  to  rise  with  the  sun.  Do  not  let  him  sur- 
prise you  in  bed.  Pay  him  the  respect  to  get  up 
and  meet  him.  Let  your  morning  hours  be  indus- 
triously spent.  JDr.  Franklin  said,  "  if  you  lose  an 
hour  in  the  morning,  you  may  run  all  day  and  not 
overtake  it."  How  true  it  is  !  "  Hours  have  wings,1' 
said  another  wise  man. 

See,  it  is  noon.  The  sun  has  reached  the  meri- 
dian. The  groups  of  children  returning  from  school 
feel  the  heat.  The  labouring  ox  is  permitted  to  rest 
awhile,  as  well  as  his  master.  The  horses  in  the 
stage-coach  pant,  and  are  glad  to  draw  near  the  ta- 
vern. The  cows  like  to  stand  in  the  quiet  stream. 
How  refreshing  are  the  shady  trees.  What  a  com 
fort  is  the  pure,  cool  water. 

Now,  the  little  Chinese  child  sleeps  on  the  breast 
3* 


30  the  girl's  reading-book. 

of  its  mother.  There  are  no  men  working  in  the 
rice  plantations.  The  boats  which  are  used  instead 
of  houses,  lie  motionless  on  the  rivers,  with  their 
many  twinkling  lights.  The  little  nests  utter  no 
chirping  sound.  All  is  still.  For  it  is  midnight  in 
China,  when  it  is  noon-day  here. 

The  sun's  journey  is  half  completed.  Is  your 
own  work  for  the  day  half  finished,  and  well  done? 
Look  up  to  your  Father  in  Heaven,  for  continued  aid. 
Good  works  must  be  "  begun,  continued,  and  ended 
in  him."  It  is  not  enough  to  ask  his  favour  in  the 
morning,  and  then  forget  him  through  the  day, 
"  Evening,  and  morning,  and  at  noon  will  I  pray/1 
said  David,  the  king  of  Israel. 

But  the,  sun  is  at  the  west.  He  is  about  to  for- 
sake us.  What  a  glorious  show  of  clouds,  purple 
and  crimson  and  gold  colour.  They  are  his  parting 
tokens,  to  remember  him  by,  till  he  comes  again, 
How  they  change,  and  mingle,  and  kindle,  and  fade 
Not  the  proudest  monarch  goes  to  rest  under  such 
a  brilliant  canopy. 

Twilight  is  a  lovely  season.  It  is  a  little  stopping 
place,  between  day  and  night.  It  is  a  shady  cell 
for  thought  to  enter.  It  is  the  cleft  of  a  rock,  where 
we  may  hide  from  the  company  of  cares..  A  Scotch 
writer  says,  it  is  the  "  quiet  time,  when  the  shuttle 
stands  still,  before  the  lamp  is  lighted." 

Now  the  last  ray  of  light  has  faded.  Sleep  begins 
to  unfold  her  curtain.  The  birds  go  to  their  cham- 
bers among  the  green  boughs.  They  close  the 
wearied  wing,  and  their  little  ones  slumber  beneath 
it.    The  domestic  fowls  prepare  for  the  coming 


THE  GIRL'S  READING-BOOK.  31 

night.  The  hen  goes  to  its  porch  in  the  barn,  and 
the  turkey  mounts  the  branches  of  the  trees,  rocking 
with  every  wind. 

Soon  it  will  be  time  for  us  to  retire.  The  active 
limb,  and  the  thinking  brain,  need  repose.  But  we 
will  not  go  to  rest,  till  we  have  examined  our  own 
conduct.  We  will  talk  with  ourselves,  seriously 
and  alone. 

Where  have  we  been  this  day  ?  What  have  we 
learned,  that  in  the  morning  we  knew  not?  Who 
have  shown  us  kindness  ?  To  whose  comfort  have 
we  added  2  What  have  we  spoken  that  we  ought 
not  to  have  said  ?  What  have  we  left  undone,  that 
we  ought  to  have  done  ? 

We  will  not  rest  in  our  bed,  till  we  have  answer- 
ed these  questions.  We  will  not  lie  down,  like  the 
burdened  camel,  with  any  wrong  thing  for  which 
we  have  not  asked  forgiveness  of  God,  or  with  the 
memory  of  any  mercy  for  which  we  have  neglected 
to  thank  him,  lest  our  sleep  should  not  be  sweet. 
nor  our  hearts  healthful,  nor  the  next  rising  sun 
our  friend. 


32  the  girl's  reading-book. 


THE   EIDER-DUCK  AND   THE   BIRD   OP 
PARADISE. 

The  Eider-Duck  is  a  fine  bird.  It  is  brown  or 
white,  and  sometimes  of  other  colours.  It  has  a 
black  crest  on  its  head,  like  a  little  crown.  If  it 
lives  to  be  old,  its  bright  plumage  turns  gray. 

It  is  found  in  countries  near  the  poles.  It  does 
not  fear  the  cold,  for  it  is  covered  with  a  soft,  warm 
down.  He  who  gave  fur  to  the  bear,  and  a  coat  of 
wool  to  the  sheep,  clothed  this  bird  with  a  downy- 
robe,  that  it  might  resist  the  winter. 

It  is  fond  of  its  young,  and  takes  kind  care  of  them. 
The  mother-bird  builds  a  good  nest,  and  lines  it  with 
the  down  from  her  own  breast.  She  plucks  it  off, 
and  willingly  bears  the  pain,  that  her  little  ones  may 
be  warm  and  sheltered. 

The  eider-down  is  much  valued.  It  is  an  article 
of  commerce.  It  is  used  for  the  covering  of  beds, 
and  to  stuff  cloaks  and  hoods,  and  to  trim  other  arti 
cles  of  clothing. 

People  are  so  desirous  to  get  it,  that  they  some- 
times tear  in  pieces  the  nest  which  the  poor  bird  has 
lined  for  her  young.  This  they  call  the  live  down, 
and  prefer  it  to  what  they  pluck  from  the  birds  after 
their  death.  They  also  climb  high  roeks,  to  obtain 
their  eggs  for  eating. 

The  eider-duck  is  found  in  great  numbers,  amid 
the  perpetual  snow  and  ice  of  Greenland,  Iceland, 
and  Norway.  Sometimes  they  are  seen  in  the  neigh  - 
bourhood  of  our  great  lakes,  and  in  the  northern 
parts  of  the  United  States. 


the  girl's  reading-book  33 

A  father  was  once  walking  with  his  little  son.  He 
carried  a  gun  upon  his  shoulder.  Suddenly  he  point- 
ed it  at  something  upon  a  rock  above  his  head.  It 
was  a  large  bird  who  seemed  hard  at  work,  spread- 
ing out  her  wings,  and  bowing  down  her  head,  and 
leaping  up. 

"  Dear  father ;  what  is  she  doing  ?"  "  Tearing  the 
down  from  her  breast,  to  make  a  soft  bed  for  her 
little  ones."  "Does  it  not  give  her  pain?"  "Yes, 
but  she  loves  them  better  than  herself." 

The  boy  gazed  earnestly  at  the  eider-duck.  "  Fa- 
ther, how  long  is  it  since  we  moved  into  this  new 
cold  country  V    "Two  years,  my  son." 

"  I  remember  the  first  winter  that  we  came  here. 
My  mother  took  us  children  to  see  the  only  neigh- 
bour that  we  had.  It  was  a  long  way  to  walk,  and 
soon  after  we  left  to  return  home,  it  began  to 
snow. 

"  The  feet  of  the  youngest  girl  tottered  with  weak 
ness.  So,  my  mother  took  her  in  her  arms.  She 
toiled  on  with  her  through  the  storm,  and  against  the 
wind.  She  took  the  only  shawl  from  her  shoulders 
and  wrapped  it  around  the  child,  pressing  her  close 
to  her  bosom. 

"  Ah  !  how  glad  were  we  to  see,  at  last,  the  lonely 
light  streaming  from  our  own  window.  It  seemed 
like  a  star  of  heaven.  When  we  got  home,  the  little 
one  was  warm,  but  our  poor  mother  was  cold  and 
faint  and  sick. 

"  She  had  deprived  herself  of  her  own  covering, 
that  the  child  mi^ht  be  sheltered.    And  she  did  not 


34  the  girl's  reading-book. 

complain,  because  she  loved  the  child.  Was  she  not 
a  good  mother  ?" 

The  father  did  not  answer.  And  when  the  son 
looked  up,  he  saw  that  there  was  a  tear  in  his  eye. 
"  Is  not  the  eider-duck  a  good  mother  ?  See,  she 
bares  her  own  breast  for  her  little  ones.  Dear  fa- 
ther, let  her  live."  So  the  father  had  compassion  on 
the  mother-bird,  and  spared  her  that  she  might  take 
care  of  her  young. 

The  Bird  of  Paradise  differs  from  the  eider-duck, 
by  living  only  in  warm  climates.  It  is  never  found 
many  degrees  from  the  equator.  Its  plumage  is  ex- 
ceedingly beautiful.  The  side  feathers  of  the  wing 
float  out  to  a  great  length,  and  are  of  various  bril- 
liant colours. 

They  principally  inhabit  New  Guinea,  and  the 
Spice  Islands.  They  pass  and  repass  in  flocks  of 
thirty  or  forty,  conducted  by  a  leader.  They  are 
very  careful  to  consult  the  state  of  the  wind,  and 
always  move  against  it,  in  order  to  preserve  their 
voluminous  train  of  feathers  in  good  order. 

Sometimes  the  wind  suddenly  changes.  Then 
their  sweeping  plumage  becomes  entangled,  and  the 
pride  of  their  glorious  beauty  is  their  overthrow. 
They  fall  to  the  ground  and  are  taken  by  the  na- 
tives, or  into  the  water  and  are  lost. 

They  are  all  distinguished  by  their  splendid  at- 
tire. They  differ  from  the  eider-duck,  as  the  fash- 
ionable lady  does  from  the  domestic  and  devoted 
mother.  It  is  only  for  ornament  that  they  are  prized 
by  the  inhabitants  of  the  east.    The  nobles  of  Per 


the  girl's  reading-book.  35 

sia,  Surat,  and  the  East  Indies,  are  anxious  to  obtain 
them  to  wear  upon  their  turbans. 

There  are  twelve  or  fifteen  different  species. 
The  most  elegant  of  these  is  called  the  Great  Bird 
of  Paradise.  It  is  of  a  cinnamon  colour,  with  a 
throat  of  golden  yellow,  and  the  body  is  small.  It 
measures  two  feet  from  the  bill  to  the  extremity  of 
its  floating  train. 

The  natives  had  a  tradition  that  they  dwelt  in  the 
sky,  and  never  touched  the  earth  till  their  last  hour 
Some  travellers  mention,  that  to  prevent  the  detec 
tion  of  this  error,  they  are  so  cruel  as  to  cut  off  theii 
feet  ere  they  sell  them.  It  is  this  species  of  the 
bird  of  paradise  which  has  sometimes  been  callei 
"the  footless  fowl  of  Indian  fable." 


36  the  girl's  reading-book. 


LESSONS  IN  THE  FIELDS. 

When  I  was  a  child,  I  knew  an  old,  gray  haired 
man.  Years  had  brought  him  wisdom,  and  he  was 
kind  as  well  as  wise.  So,  I  loved  him,  and  rejoiced 
when  I  saw  him  coming  towards  me,  leaning  upon 
his  staff. 

Once,  as  he  talked  with  me,  he  said,  "  I  know  a 
way  to  be  happy.  I  learned  it  in  the  fields."  Then 
I  entreated  him  to  teach  it  also  to  me.  But  he  an- 
swered, "  Go  forth  into  the  fields,  among  living 
things,  and  learn  it  there  for  thyself." 

I  went  forth,  and  looked  attentively  upon  all  that 
moved  around.  But  no  voice  spake,  and  no  eye  re- 
garded me.  So,  I  returned  to  the  aged  man,  and 
when  he  asked  what  I  saw  in  the  fields,  I  replied : 

c*  I  saw  the  brook  flowing  on  among  sweet  flowers. 
ft  seemed  to  be  singing  a  merry  song.  I  listened, 
but  there  were  no  words  to  the  music.  The  spar- 
row  flew  by  me  with  down  in  her  beak,  wherewith 
to  line  her  nest,  and  the  red-breast  with  a  crumb  she 
had  gathered  at  the  door,  to  feed  her  chirping 
young. 

"  The  ducklings  swam  beside  their  mother  in  the 
clear  stream.  The  hen  drev  her  chickens  beneath 
her  wings,  and  screamed  to  t\  e  soaring  hawk.  The 
spider  threw  out  threads  like  lines  of  silver1.  She 
fastened  them  from  spray  to  pray,  and  ran  lightly 
on  the  bridge  made  from  her  (  wn  body. 

"  The  snail  put  his  horned  head  through  the  doos 
of  his  house  of  shell,  and  drew  it  suddenly  back* 


THE  GIRL'S  READING-BOOK.  3? 

The  ant  carried  in  her  pincers  a  grain  of  corn,  and 
the  loaded  bee  hastened  to  her  hive,  like  a  labourer 
to  his  cottage. 

"  The  dog  came  forth  and  guarded  the  young 
lambs.  They  frisked  fearlessly  by  the  side  of  their 
mothers,  who  with  serioits  faces  were  cropping  the 
tender  grass.     All  seemed  full  of  happiness. 

"  I  asked  of  them  the  way  to  happiness.  But  they 
made  no  reply.  Again  and  again  I  exclaimed, 
{  which  of  you  will  teach  me  the  way  to  be  happy?1 
And  only  echo  answered,  repeating  ' happy,  happy? 
but  not  telling  me  how  to  become  so." 

"  Hast  thou  looked  upon  all  these,"  said  the  aged 
man,  "  and  yet  received  no  instruction  ?  Did  not 
the  brook  tell  thee,  it  might  not  stay  to  be  idle,  but 
must  haste  to  meet  the  river,  and  go  with  that  to  the 
ocean,  to  do  the  bidding  of  ocean's  king  ? 

"  Did  it  not  say  to  thee,  that  it  found  pleasure  by 
the  way,  in  refreshing  the  trees  that  stretched  their 
roots  to  meet  it,  and  in  giving  drink  to  the  flowers 
that  bowed  themselves  down  to  its  face,  with  a  kiss 
of  gratitude? 

"  Thou  didst  see  the  birds  building  their  nests 
among  the  cool,  green  branches,  or  flying  with  food 
to  nourish  their  unfledged  young.  And  couldst  thou 
not  perceive,  that  to  make  others  happy  is  hap- 
piness? 

"  The  young  duck  gave  diligence  to  learn  of  its 

mother  the  true  use  of  its  oary  feet,  and  how  to 

Dalance  its  body  in  the  deep  waters.     The  chicken 

obeyed  the  warning  to  hide  itself  under  the  shelter- 

4 


38  the  girl's  reading-book. 

ing  wing,  though  it  was  ignorant  of  the  cruelty  of 
the  foe  from  which  it  fled. 

"  And  did  they  not  bid  thee  seek  with  the  same 
obedience  the  lessons  of  thy  mother,  who  every  day 
teacheth  thee,  and  every  night  lifteth  up  a  prayer 
that  thy  soul  may  escape  the  destroyer  and  live  for- 
ever? 

"  The  spider's  silken  bower  was  swept  away,  and 
she  began  another  without  murmuring  or  despond- 
ence. The  snail  willingly  put  forth  all  her  strength 
to  bear  her  house  upon  her  back;  and  the  ant  cheer- 
fully toiled  on  with  a  load  of  corn  to  her  winter 
store  house. 

"  Thou  sawest  that  the  bee  wasted  not  the  small- 
est drop  of  sweetness  that  lingered  in  the  honey- 
cups,  or  among  the  bells  of  the  flowers.  And  came 
there  no  voice  to  thee  from  all  these  examples  of 
patience, and  prudence  and  wisdom? 

"  Thou  didst  admire  the  shepherd's  dog  protecting 
the  helpless,  and  zealously  doing  the  bidding  of  his 
master.  How  couldst  thou  fail  to  understand  that 
faithful  continuance  in  duty  is  happiness  ? 

"  From  all  these  busy  teachers  came  there  no  pre- 
cept unto  thee?  When  each  gave  thee  lessons,  wert 
thou  deaf  to  their  instruction  ?  Did  not  the  fields 
lift  up  their  hands,  and  tell  thee  that  industry  was 
happiness,  that  idleness  was  an  offence  both  to  Na- 
ture and  to  her  God  ?" 

Then  I  bowed  down  my  head  upon  my  bosom, 
and  my  cheek  was  crimson  with  shame.  Because  I 
had  not  understood  the  lessons  of  the  fields,  and  was 
ignorant  of  what  even  birds  and  insects  taught. 


the  girl's  reading-book.  39 

But  the  man  with  hoary  hairs  comforted  me.  So, 
I  thanked  him  for  his  tenderness  and  wisdom.  And 
I  took  his  precepts  into  my  heart,  that  I  might  weigh 
them  and  find  if  they  were  true.  And  though  I 
was  then  young,  and  now  am  old,  I  have  never  had 
reason  to  doubt  that  these  lessons  of  the  fields 
were  good,  and  that  to  do  the  will  of  the  Creator  is 
happiness. 


40  THE  GIKf/S  READING-BUOK. 


EASY  STUDIES. 

1  nearri  iwo  girls,  as  they  conversed.  One  said, 
*  I  am  sure  I  should  not  like  to  attend  your  school. 
You  have  longer  lessons  than  I  choose  to  learn.  Be- 
sides, I  think  they  give  you  too  hard  studies.  I 
always  prefer  easy  studies,  and  short  lessons." 

Afterwards,  as  I  reflected,  I  could  not  help  saying 
to  myself, — "  Now,  I  am  afraid,  that  this  lover  of 
short  lessojis,  and  easy  studies, — if  she  lives  to  grow 
up,  and  have  the  care  of  a  family,  will  choose  only 
easy  things,  and  become  indolent,  and  negligent  in 
her  duties. 

"  I  am  afraid  that  when  she  is  a  woman,  and  any 
difficult  thing  presses  on  her,  as  it  surely  must,  she 
will  be  discouraged,  or  perhaps  unamiable.  For  a 
love  of  ease  leads  to  selfishness,  and  selfishness  to 
an  unhappy  disposition  and  wrong  conduct." 

I  once  heard  an  excellent  old  lady  say  to  her 
grand  children,  "  If  you  will  do  nothing  but  what  is 
easy,  you  will  be  neither  a  good  mother,  or  a  good 
housekeeper.  Your  children  will  be  neglected,  and 
your  house  out  of  order.  You  will  complain  of  bad 
help,  and  no  help,  for  the  care  that  is  necessary  to 
make  domestics  faithful  at  their  post,  and  contented 
to  remain  there,  you  certainly  will  not  be  willing  to 
take. 

"  The  little  girl,"  said  she,  "  who  will  not  learn  to 
do  this,  or  that,  because  it  is  hard,  will  be  apt  to  be- 
long to  that  class,  who  do  not  like  to  keep  house, 
and  must  go  to  board,  to  live  easy.    But  in  trying  to 


THE  GIRL'S  READING-BOOK.  41 

escape  what  they  call  troubles,  they  lose  all  thos 
pleasures  of  home,  which  make  parents  respectable, 
and  children  happy." 

The  scholar,  who  loves  only  easy  studies,  and 
short  lessons,  if  she  carries  those  habits  of  mind  into 
future  life,  will  be  in  danger  of  becoming  either  a 
vixen,  or  a  drone.  When  cares  and  crosses  meet 
her,  she  will  murmur  under  their  burden,  or  decline 
the  labour  that  they  impose. 

It  is  a  loss  to  know  how  to  do  nothing  but  what 
is  easy.  Strength  of  intellect  is  acquired  by  con- 
quering hard  studies,  and  strength  of  character  by 
overcoming  obstacles.  She  who  is  not  willing  to 
contend  with  difficulties,  is  not  fitted  for  this  world. 
The  being  who  best  knows  for  what  end  we  were 
placed  here,  has  scattered  in  our  path  something 
besides  roses. 

Especially  is  it  a  fault  in  our  sex,  to  like  only 
easy  things.  Our  business  is  to  seek  the  happiness 
of  others  rather  than  our  own.  Selfishness,  in  us,  is 
sin;  for  it  wars  with  the  design  of  our  Creator. 
And  none  can  oppose  his  will,  and  be  happy. 

Avoid,  therefore,  the  determination  to  choose  short 
lessons,  and  easy  studies,  lest  the  habits  thus  che- 
rished, should  make  you  a  self-indulgent  and  helpless 
woman.  Gird  yourself  up  to  the  race  of  life.  Re- 
solve that  whatever  your  duty  to  God  and  man 
requires,  you  will  perform  diligently  and  faithfully. 

The  females  of  ancient   Rome  had  a  power  of 

endurance,   and  a  contempt  of  hardships,   which 

eaused  them  to  be  respected,  even  in  a  rude  age. 

The  daughters  of  our  republic,  ennobled  as  they 

4* 


42  the  girl's  reading-book. 

are  by  higher  knowledge,  and  a  purer  faith5  ought 
surely  not  to  be  less  energetic,  or  less  disinterested. 

The  increased  advantages  of  education,  now  en- 
joyed by  the  young,  heighten  the  expectations  of 
their  friends,  and  their  responsibilities  to  God. 
Their  minds  are  no  longer  fettered,  or  held  in  dark- 
ness. Every  talent  finds  fitting  employment  in  the 
broad  field  of  christian  duty  and  benevolence. 

Time  was,  when  the  temple  of  Science  was 
barred  against  the  foot  of  wom^n.  Heathen  tyran- 
ny held  her  in  vassalage,  and  Mahometan  prejudice 
pronounced  her  without  a  soul.  Now,  from  the 
sanctuary  which  knowledge  and  wisdom  have  con- 
secrated, and  from  whence  she  was  so  long  exclu- 
ded, the  interdict  is  taken  away. 

How  will  she  receive  the  permission  ?  How  will 
she  prize  the  gift?  Will  she  loiter  at  the  threshold 
of  this  magnificent  temple?  Will  she  amuse  herself 
in  the  outer  courts,  with  those  brief  and  gaudy  flow- 
ers, which  spring  up  where  is  "no  deepness  of 
earth?"  Will  she  advance  a  few  steps,  and  boast  of 
herow'n  attainments,  and  twine  the  garland  of  vanity 
around  her  brow,  and  be  satisfied  with  ignorance  ? 

Or  will  she  press  to  the  inmost  shrine  of  the  tem- 
ple of  knowledge,  among  those  patient  and  zealous 
worshippers,  whose  "  candle  goeth  not  out  by  night  ?" 
Dear  young  friends,  who  are  favoured  with  the  privi- 
leges of  education,  these  questions  are  for  you. 

On  those  of  mature  age,  habit  has  fastened  her 
chains,  and  set  a  seal  on  character.  With  you, 
it  is  the  forming  period,  the  time  of  hope.  Allure- 
ments to  indolence  and  vanity  surround  you.    Rise 


the  girl's  reading-book.  43 

above  them.  Fix  your  standard  high.  Take  for 
your  models  the  wisest  and  best  of  your  sex. 

Be  active,  while  the  deAvs  of  the  morning  are  fresh 
around  you.  Soon,  the  sun  will  oppress  you  with 
its  noon-day  heat.  It  will  find  you  toiling  in  steeper 
paths,  and  wearied  beneath  heavier  burdens.  Then 
you  will  wish  to  be  refreshed  with  the  rich  fruits  of 
a  refined  intellect.  May  you  not  have  to  take  up 
the  lamentation,  "  mine  own  vineyard  have  I  not 
kept." 

The  time  must  soon  come,  should  your  days  be 
prolonged,  when  you  will  be  young  no  more.  Life 
will  then  be  like  a  "  twice-told  tale."  The  present 
will  be  disrobed  of  novelty,  and  the  future  of  its 
charm,  and  the  mind  will  turn  for  solace  to  the  gath- 
erings of  the  past.  Furnish  now  your  intellectual 
store-house  for  that  day  of  need. 

Be  willing  to  labour  for  knowledge,  to  learn  long 
lessons,  and  to  encounter  difficult  studies.  Seek  it 
with  a  tireless  spirit,  and  so  use  it,  that  all  within 
the  sphere  of  your  influence  may  rejoice  in  your 
mental  and  moral  excellence  and  be  quickened  by 
your  example  to  seek  for  ,k  giory,  honour,  immor- 
tality, eternal  life." 


44  the  girl's  reading-book. 


OBEDIENCE. 


Next  to  your  duty  to  God,  is  your  duty  to  your 
parents.  He  has  made  them  your  guides,  because 
they  arc  wiser  than  you,  and  love  you  better  than 
any  other  earthly  friends.  You  cannot  always  un- 
uersiand  the  reason  of  their  commands.  It  is  not 
necessary  that  you  should.  If  you  live  to  be  as  old 
as  they  are,  you  will  perceive  that  their  restraints 
were  for  your  good. 

Think  of  the  miseries  of  orphanage.  The  great- 
est loss  that  can  befal  a  child,  is  to  be  deprived  of 
pious  and  affectionate  parents.  While  such  bless- 
ings are  continued  to  j^ou,  never  be  so  ungrateful  as 
to  distress  them  by  disobedience.  It  is  but  a  slight 
payment  for  all  their  watchings  over  your  infancy, 
their  care  for  your  comfort,  and  patience  with  your 
errors,  to  do  faithfully  and  cheerfully  the  things 
that  they  desire. 

When  your  parents  are  absent,  observe  their  com- 
mands with  the  same  fidelity  as  if  they  were  present. 
The  child  who  obeys  only  when  under  the  eye  of 
a  superior,  has  not  learned  obedience.  He,  who 
seeth  at  all  times,  and  in  every  place,  is  dis- 
pleased with  those  who  deceive  their  parents.  He 
hath  promised  to  reward  those  who  "honour  their 
father  and  their  mother." 

The  principle  of  obedience,  is  the  principle  of 
order  and  happiness.  If  there  were  no  subordina- 
tion in  families,  what  comfort  would  be  found  there? 
If  pupils  refused  to  obey  the  directions  of  their 


the  girl's  reading-book.  45 

teachers,  what  benefit  could  they  receive  from  their 
instructions?  If  in  nations,  the  laws  were  disre- 
garded, /what  safety  would  there  be  for  the  people? 

Let  the  principle  of  obedience  be  rooted  in  love. 
Take  pleasure  in  obeying  the  commands  of  your 
superiors.  Even  if  you  should  have  an  opposing 
wish,  let  there  be  no  reluctance  of  manner  or  coun- 
tenance. I  doubted  the  obedience  of  a  child,  whom 
I  once  heard  say  to  his  mother,  "I  will  go,  when  I 
have  done  one  or  two  little  things." 

But  when  I  heard  afterward,  the  mother  asking 
earnestly,  "  did  you  do  as  I  bade,  you?'''  I  knew  that 
he  was  not  an  obedient  child,  though  I  did  not  hear 
his  answer.  For  if  obedience  had  been  habitual,  his 
mother  would  not  have  felt  it  necessary  to  inquire 
if  he  had  regarded  her  commands.  She  would  not 
have  feared  that  he  had  neglected  them,  if  his  heart 
had  been  in  his  duty. 

It  is  ill-treatment  of  our  dearest  friends,  to  yield 
to  their  wishes  with  a  frowning  brow,  or  a  disagree- 
able deportment.  Convince  your  parents  and  in- 
structors by  your  attentions  and  alacrity,  that  you 
are  thankful  for  the  trouble  they  take,  in  advising 
and  directing  you. 

No  greater  evil  could  happen  to  the" young,  than 
for  their  older  and  wiser  friends  to  withdraw  their 
control,  and  abandon  them  to  .their  own  inexperi- 
ence. If  your  superiors  gave  you  a  piece  of  gold, 
you  would  doubtless  express  your  gratitude.  But 
when  they  impart  to  you  of  thair  wisdom,  they 
give  you  that  which  is  of  more  value  than  gold. 

When  you  are  in  school,  feel  it  a  privilege  to  be 


46  ,       the  girl's  reading-book. 

there,  and  give  your  time  and  thought  to  the  em- 
ployments which  your  teachers  mark  out  for  you. 
Keep  all  their  rules.  Consider  it  dishonourable  to 
break  them.  Make  the  wishes  of  your  instructors 
your  own,  and  then  you  will  acquire  knowledge, 
with  pleasure  to  yourself  and  to  them. 

Treat  old  persons  with  respect.  This  is  too  apt  to 
be  forgotten  by  the  young,  though  the  Bible  com- 
mands, "  to  rise  up  before  the  face  of  the  old  man, 
and  honour  the  hoary  head."  We  should  fear  to  be 
irreverent  to  those,  whom  the  Almighty  has  en- 
joined us  to  honour. 

The  natives  of  this  country,  were  observed  by 
our  ancestors  to  be  exemplary  in  their  treatment  of 
the  aged.  The  young  rose  up  and  gave  place  to 
them.  They  bowed  down  reverently  before  them. 
They  solicited  their  opinion,  and  listened  attentively 
till  they  had  done  speaking. 

The  young  men  of  the  forest  stood  silent  in  their 
councils,  when  the  gray-haired  chieftains  opened 
their  lips.  We  should  not  be  willing  to  have  the 
untutored  Indian  surpass  us  in  a  duty  so  graceful. 
You  remember  that  when  a  hoary-headed  man  oncie 
entered  a  thronged  assembly  in  Athens,  and  there 
was  no  seat,  the  young  people  were  so  rude  as  to 
laugh  at  his  embarrassment.  But  when  he  was  in 
a  similar  situation  at  Sparta,  the  young  arose  and 
made  room.  "  The  Athenians  know  what  is  right," 
said  he,  "  bul  the  Spartans  practise  it." 

May  it  never  be  said  of  us,  that  we  understand 
our  duties,  but  disregard  the  obligations  they  im- 
pose.   Whenever  you  meet  an  old  person,  remem- 


the  girl's  reading-buOe:.  47 

ber  the  command  of  God,  and  treat  him  with  res- 
pect. Years  have  given  him  experience,  and  expe- 
rience is  worthy  of  honour.  Withhold  not  the  rev- 
erence that  is  his  due.  "  The  hoary  head  is  a  crown 
of  glory,  if  it  be  found  in  the  way  of  righteousness/' 

Shew  respect  to  magistrates,  and  to  all  who  are 
in  places  of  authority.  There  would  be  fewer  muti- 
nies and  revolutions,  if  children  were  trained  up  in 
obedience.  Distinguish  yourselves  by  submission 
and  deference  towards  all  whose  station  or  virtues 
claim  them  as  their  due.  It  was  said  of  Washing- 
ton, by  his  mother,  that  "his  first  lesson  was  to 
obey."  Those  best  know  how  to  direct  others,  who 
have  themselves  been  taught  subordination. 

By  faithfully  discharging  your  first  and  earliest 
obligations,  you  will  be  prepared  to  act  well  your 
part  in  future  life.  You  will  maintain  good  order 
in  your  own  families,  and  honour  just  government 
in  the  land.  And  if  you  live  to  be  old,  and  have 
only  a  few  gray  hairs  where  your  bright  locks  now 
grow,  you  will  deserve  from  the  young  the  same 
cheerful  obedience  and  grateful  respect  which  you 
have  yourself  shown  to  your  superiors. 


48  the  girl's  reading-book. 


THE    GOOD    DAUGHTER. 

Ellen's  mother  died,  when  she  was  scarcely  thir- 
teen years  old.  Her  only  brother  had  died  the  win- 
ter before.  Her  two  sisters  were  married,  and  had 
removed  to  so  great  a  distance,  that  she  seldom 
heard  from  them.  She  was  quite  alone  with  her 
father. 

When  her  mother  first  died,  she  felt  as  if  she 
never  could  be  happy  again.  But  when  she  saw  her 
father  looking  so  sad,  she  thought  it  was  her  duty  to 
try  to  comfort  him;  and  when  he  came  in  tired 
from  his  work,  she  would  set  a  chair  for  him,  and 
get  him  whatever  he  wanted,  and  speak  pleasantly 
to  him,  as  her  mother  used  to  do. 

She  remembered  how  her  mother  made  bread, 
and  was  ambitious  to  make  it  in  the  same  way.  She 
proportioned  the  articles  just  as  she  had  seen  her 
do.  When  she  kneaded  the  dough,  she  used  all  the 
strength  in  her  little  arms.  She  took  great  pains  to 
have  it  light,  and  to  bake  it  well,  and  when  she 
placed  on  the  table  the  first  loaf  that  she  had  ever 
made,  she  could  not  help  weeping  for  joy,  to  hear 
her  father  say,  "  Child,  this  tastes  like  your  mother's 
bread." 

She  had  often  assisted  in  churning,  but  had  never 
taken  the  whole  charge  of  making  butter.  But  she 
was  anxious  to  try.  She  was  careful  to  keep  her 
milk-pail  and  pans  very  clean  and  sweet.  In  work- 
ing over  the  new  butter,  she  patiently  removed  every 
drop  of  butter-milk,  because  she  had  heard   her 


the  girl's  reading-book.  49 

mother  say  that  this  was  necessary  m  order  to  have 
it  good. 

The  neighbours  were  pleased  with  the  industry 
of  the  little  girl,  and  encouraged  her  in  her  house- 
keeping. She  could  not  but  miss  her  mother  sadly, 
and  many  times  a  day  grieved  for  her  loss.  But  she 
went  by  herself  to  weep,  for  she  said,  "  I  will  not 
make  my  poor  father  more  sad  by  my  sorrow.  He 
has  enough  of  his  own  to  bear." 

When  winter  evenings  came;  she  swept  the  hearth 
neatly,  and  placed  the  light  on  the  little  stand,  and 
sat  down  by  his  side  with  her  needle.  Her  mother 
had  thoroughly  instructed  her  in  plain  sewing,  and 
while  she  mended  or  made  garments,  her  father 
read  aloud  to  her.  He  began  to  be  comforted  by  the 
goodness  of  his  daughter,  and  she  perceived  that  the 
tones  of  his  voice  grew  more  cheerful  in  the  evening 
prayer,  and  when  he  bade  her  good-night. 

Her  father  worked  hard  every  day.  She  had  often 
heard  her  mother  say  that  they  were  poor,  and 
must  economize.  So  as  she  grew  older,  she  studied 
how  to  save  expense.  She  knew  that  her  mother 
made  several  very  comfortable  dishes  with  but  a  little 
meat.  So  she  learned  to  prepare  soup  in  the  same 
way.  Also,  by  putting  thin  layers  of  meat,  with  a 
little  pepper  and  salt,  and  some  broken  pieces  of 
bread,  in  a  small  pot,  with  a  plenty  of  vegetables 
from  their  own  garden,  and  covering  them  close 
until  all  was  thoroughly  stewed,  a  very  nourishing 
dish  was  ready,  when  her  father  came  home  to 
dinner. 

They  had  near  the  door,  a  tree  of  nice  sweet  &p- 
5 


50  the  girl's  reading-book. 

pies.  Some  of  these  she  pared  and  laid  in  a  deep 
pan,  mingling"  them  with  a  few  sour  apples  to  pro- 
duce a  pleasant  flavour,  and  covered  the  whole  with 
a  thick  crust,  which  she  broke  after  it  was  baked, 
and  plunged  into  the  warm  apple-sauce.  This  made 
a  kind  of  pie  of  which  her  father  was  fond. 

He  also  liked  puddings,  and  she  learned  to  make 
several  cheap  and  good  ones.  Among  them  was 
one,  she  sometimes  called  the  "  Saturday  pud- 
ding," because  she  baked  it  on  Saturdays,  that  they 
might  have  it  for  a  Sunday  dinner,  cold  in  the  sum- 
mer, and  in  the  winter  warmed  on  the  coals;  for  they 
were  not  accustomed  to  cook  on  that  day,  as  they 
both  felt  it  a  privilege  to  go  to  church. 

She  made  this  simple  pudding  by  picking  over 
and  washing  a  gill  of  rice,  to  which  she  added  a 
spoonful  or  two  of  brown  sugar,  and  after  letting  it 
soak  a  while  in  three  pints  of  milk,  baked  it.  She 
felt  it  a  pleasure  to  learn  every  thing,  however  small, 
that  would  make  her  father  comfortable,  and  a  duty 
to  do  it  prudently. 

Her  mother  had  been  accustomed  to  sell  what 
butter  they  could  spare,  to  a  lady  in  the  neighbour- 
hood. Ellen  continued  to  do  so,  and  the  lady  ex- 
pressed herself  much  surprised  that  so  young  a  girl 
should  make  so  fine  butter,  and  send  It  in  such  neat 
order.  If  she  ever  felt  fatigued  with  her  labours, 
she  would  recollect  her  mother's  example,  and 
always  be  pleasant  and  cheerful  when  her  father 
came  home. 

She  had  been  early  taught  to  knit  and  to  spin, 
and  remembered  to  have  heard  her  mother  say,  that 


THE  GIRL'S  READING-EOOK.  51 

stockings  made  from  wool  which  was  carded  in  the 
house,  lasted  much  longer  than  that  which  was  pre- 
pared at  the  factories,  because  the  machine  cut  the 
wool  so  fine,  as  to  impair  its  strength.  She  wished 
to  avail  herself  of  this  knowledge,  but  found  she 
could  not  succeed  in  preparing  such  smooth  rolls  as 
she  had  seen  her  mother  spin. 

So  she  took  the  wool  to  a  neighbour,  who  was 
experienced  in  such  work,  and  offered  if  she  would 
teach  her  how  to  prepare  it,  to  sew  for  her 
until  she  was  satisfied  with  the  payment.  "  That  I 
will,  my  good  girl,"  said  she,  '*or  any  thing  else  you 
wish  me  to  help  you  about,  for  wc  all  love  you  for 
taking  such  care  of  your  father.  Your  wrists  are 
not  strong  enough  yet  to  break  and  card  this  long 
wool,  and  I  shall  be  glad  to  have  you  make  an  apron 
for  my  baby." 

After  the  rolls  were  made,  she  spun  them  into 
very  even  yarn,  and  having  heard  her  father  say 
that  he  thought  stockings  were  warmer  and  set 
closer  for  being  seamed,  she  finished  him  two  pair 
of  long  ones  for  winter,  by  knitting  two  stitches 
plain,  and  seaming  the  third,  and  was  delighted  to 
see  how  entirely  they  pleased  him. 

Having  an  active  mind,  she  began  to  think  of 
some  improvement  in  economy,  and  proposed  that 
he  should  purchase  from  a  man  for  whom  he  worked, 
a  lamb  or  a  sheep;  "for  it  can  get  its  living  with 
the  cow,"  said  she,  "  and  we  can  use  its  wool  for 
stockings,  and  then  you  will  not  be  obliged  to  buy." 
But,  wilh  all  her  prudence,  she  was  not  covetous, 
and  many  a  little  pair  of  thick  stockings  did  she  knit 


52  the  girl's  reading-book. 

for  poor  children,  and  many  a  neatly  mended  gar- 
ment which  she  thought  they  could  spare,  did  she 
carry  to  the  sick ;  for  economy  and  generosity  are 
often  found  together. 

When  Ellen  grew  to  be  a  young  woman,  she  was 
a  favourite  with  all.  The  old  and  thoughtful  re- 
spected her  for  her  obedience  and  affection  to  her 
only  parent,  who  no  longer  felt  lonely,  so  comfort 
able  and  cheerful  had  she  made  his  home.  She  was 
also  quite  admired,  for  she  had  a  good  person,  a 
healthfu-l  complexion,  and  the  open  smile  of  one 
who  is  in  the  habit  of  doing  right,  and  feels  happy 
at  heart,  which  is  the  truest  beauty. 

When  her  young  friends  visited  her,  though  she 
was  fond  of  society,  she  did  not  forget  that  her  first 
duty  was  to  her  father.  However  agreeable  they 
were,  as  soon  as  the  appointed  time  for  his  family 
devotions  came,  she  would  say  in  the  gentlest  man- 
ner, "  my  father  has  been  long  used  to  retire  at 
nine."  And  those  who  were  the  most  unwilling  to 
leave  her,  could  not  but  respect  her  for  attention 
to  his  wishes. 

She  was  addressed  by  a  deserving  young  man, 
who  had  known  her  merits  from  childhood.  To  his 
proposal  she  replied,  "  My  father  is  growing  infirm, 
and  is  able  to  work  but  little.  I  feel  it  my  duty  to 
take  care  of  him  as  long  as  he  lives.  It  might  be  a 
burden  to  others.     It  is  a  pleasure  to  me." 

"  Ellen,  it  will  be  no  burden  to  me.  Let  me  help 
you  in  supporting  him.  Most  gladly  will  I  work  for 
all."  She  saw  that  he  was  sincere,  and  they  were 
married.     Her  husband  had  a  small  house  and  a 


the  girl's  reading-book.  53 

piece  of  ground  on  which  he  laboured.  She  kept 
every  thing  neat  and  in  order,  and  was  always  plea- 
sant and  cheerful.  "I  have  now  two  motives,"  she 
said,  "to  be  as  good  as  I  can, — a  husband  and  a 
father." 

Ellen's  little  children  loved  their  hoary  grand- 
father. She  taught  them  by  her  own  example  how 
to  treat  him  with  respect.  The  warmest  corner 
was  always  for  him.  When  they  saw  her  listening 
to  all  he  said  with  reverence,  they  never  thought  of 
interrupting  him,  or  disregarding  his  remarks.  As 
he  was  deaf,  she  raised  her  voice  when  she  spoke  to 
him,  in  a  steady,  affectionate  tone,  and  they  learned 
to  do  the  same. 

.As  they  grew  older,  they  read  the  Bible  to  him 
daily,  for  his  eyesight  failed.  His  explanations 
were  a  treasure  to  them.  Especially  was  he  pleased 
when  any  of  them  learned  to  repeat  by  heajt  some 
of  the  Psalms  of  David.  "  For  these,"  he  said, 
j  have  been  my  songs  in  the  house  of  my  pil- 
grimage." 

Teachers,  and  others,  who  saw  the  children  of 
Ellen,  observed  that  they  had  better  manners  than 
others  of  the  same  age.  They  acquired  them,  in  a 
great  measure,  from  their  constant  propriety  of  de- 
portment to  their  venerable  grandfather.  To  pay 
respect  to  age,  is  a  benefit  both  to  the  manners  and 
character  of  children.  It  is  an  advantage  to  (hem 
to  live  under  the  same  roof  with  a  pious  old  person, 
provided  they  show  them  that  reverence  which  the 
Bible  commands. 

Ellen  reaped  a  part  of  the  reward  of  her  filial  dutyj 
5* 


54  the  girl's  reading-book. 

in  seeing  her  children  made  better,  and  her  fathej 
happy.  In  his  last  sickness  all  waited  upon  him 
When  he  was  no  longer  able  to  raise  his  head  from 
the  clean  pillow  where  it  was  laid,  he  thanked  God 
who  had  put  it  into  the  heart  of  his  daughter  to 
nourish  him  with  a  never-failing  kindness,  and  he 
blessed  her  and  her  husband,  and  their  little  ones. 

Death  came  for  him,  and  his  eyes  grew  dim,  and 
they  were  no  longer  able  to  warm  his  feet  and 
hands.  Ellen  raised  him  up  in  his  bed,  and  sat 
behind  him,  and  wrapped  her  arms  tenderly  around 
him,  for  she  saw  that  he  shivered.  And  most  touch- 
ing was  it  to  hear  him  say,  as  he  leaned  his  head 
upon  her  shoulder  for  the  last  time,  "  The  Lord  bless 
thee  and  keep  thee  ;  the  Lord  make  his  face  to  shine 
upon  thee ;  the  Lord  lift  up  the  light  of  his  counte- 
nance upon  thee,  and  give  thee  peace." 


the  girl's  reading-book.  55 

tfHE  SICK. 

As  sickness  is  at  some  time  or  other  the  lot  of  all, 
it  is  well  to  learn,  while  young,  how  to  treat  those 
who  are  sick,  and  how  to  conduct  when  we  are  our- 
selves so.  The  care  of  the  sick  is  peculiarly  the  bu- 
siness of  our  sex.  Therefore,  even  little  girls  should 
be  trained  to  wait  upon  them,  and  to  sympathize  in 
their  sufferings. 

Sickness  is  an  evil,  not  only  because  it  brings  pain, 
but  because  it  prevents  us  from  being  useful.  We 
should  consider  good  health  as  a  precious  gift  from 
our  Heavenly  Father,  and  avoid  any  imprudence  by 
which  it  is  endangered.  If  Ave  are  necessarily  ex- 
posed to  cold,  we  should  guard  ourselves  with  thick 
clothing,  especially  about  the  feet.  Shun  the  folly 
of  wearing  thin  stockings  in  winter,  or  thin  shoes 
when  the  streets  are  wet. 

Sickness,  that  comes  through  imprudence,  is  at- 
tended with  self-reproach.  We  have  no  right  to 
sport  with  our  health.  This  wonderful  frame,  fa- 
shioned by  an  Almighty  Hand,  this  temple  of  the 
immortal  spirit,  was  not  intended  for  us  to  mar  and 
deface,  as  fashion  or  folly  dictate.  We  should  im- 
part the  earliest  indications  of  ill-health  to  those 
who  have  the  care  of  us,  as  a  slight  remedy  taken 
in  season  often  prevents  a  formidable  complaint. 

When  you  are  seriously  sick,  give  yourself  up 
entirely  to  those  who  have  the  care  of  you.  Take 
without  objection  whatever  they  bring  you,  how- 
ever unpleasant  to  the  taste.     Sickness  is  not  a  time 


56 

to  gratify  the  palate,  but  to  learn  patience.  Thank 
those  who  perform  any  service  for  you,  however 
small.  Do  not  add  to  their  fatigue  any  more  than 
you  can  help.  If  you  see  them  standing  long  by 
your  bed,  request  them  to  take  a  seat. 

If  you  have  watchers,  urge  them  to  take  refresh- 
ment in  the  course  of  the  night,  and,  if  possible,  to 
get  some  repose.  These  attentions  are  pleasant  to 
those  who  nurse  you,  and  help  to  turn  your  thoughts 
from  self,  for  selfishness  is  too  prone  to  intrude  into 
the  chamber  of  sickness.  Consider  your  physician 
as  your  friend.  Tell  him  frankly  all  he  asks,  and 
submit  to  his  remedies  without  opposition. 

Open  your  inind  to  cheering  thoughts,  and  keep 
your  heart  full  of  hope,  for  they  promote  recovery. 
Spread  your  case  before  the  Great  Physician,- and 
ask  his  blessing  on  every  remedy.  When  you  are 
well  again,  remember  that  you  are  under  a  renewed 
weight  of  gratitude  to  Him,  and  to  those  who  have 
watched  over  you,  and  shown  you  kindness,  and 
from  your  own  sufferings  learn  to  pity  others  who 
suffer. 

The  first  thing  to  be  considered  in  your  treatment 
of  the  sick,  is  to  avoid  whatever  might  disturb  them. 
This  seems  a  slight  attainment,  and  yet  is  not  al- 
ways understood  even  by  professed  nurses.  A  child 
should  be  taught  to  avoid  loud  noises  and  laughter, 
heavy  footsteps,  and  careless  shutting  of  doors, 
when  any  one  is  sick  in  the  house.  And  the  more 
delicate  attentions  of  shading  the  light  from  the 
face,  or  the  lamp  from  the  eye,  and  avoiding  in  the 
warming  of  drinks,  or  the  arrangement  of  the  fire, 


the  girl's  reading-book.  57 

every  sudden  and  shrill  sound,  should  be  familiar  to 
all  in  attendance. 

Move  with  the  greatest  quietness  around  the  cham- 
ber of  the  sick,  and  when  you  speak  tfo  them,  do  so 
with  a  pleasant  smile,  and  a  soft,  low  tone.  When 
you  carry  any  little  delicacy  to  an  invalid,  arrange 
it  with  perfect  neatness,  and  if  you  can,  with  taste. 
These  little  circumstances  are  observed  by  them, 
and  have  a  cheering  effect.  If  you  send  them  fruit,  or 
sweetmeats,  dispose  them  so  as  to  make  an  agreeable 
appearance.  If  you  lay  a  nosegay  upon  their  pil- 
low, let  it  be  fresh  and  beautiful;  and  so  place  every 
flower,  that  its  form  and  colouring  may  be  most 
easily  discerned. 

Remember  the  sick  poor.  Learn  to  make  proper 
drinks  or  nourishing  broths  for  them  with  your  own 
hands.  Visit  them,  and  ascertain  if  their  clothing 
and  beds  are  comfortably  provided,  and  converse 
with  your  parents  and  older  friends  respecting  their 
situation.  Such  habits  are  valuable  in  the  young, 
and  should  be  cherished  by  those  who  have  the 
charge  of  their  education,  as  far  as  circumstances 
will  admit. 

I  once  knew  a  little  girl,  who,  when  her  mother 
had  a  headache,  would  glide  around  the  house  like 
a  shadow,  with  her  finger  on  her  lip,  to  remind  the 
other  children  to  be  silent.  I  have  seen  her,  when 
her  aged  grandmother  could  not  sleep  for  nervous- 
ness, pass  within  the  curtains,. and  press  for  a  long 
time  her  temples  with  a  soft,  gentle  hand,  and  then 
breathe  low  in  her  ear  the  simple  tones  of  lulling  mu- 
sic, till  she  was  composed  to  slumber.   And  I  joyed  to 


i 


68  the  girl's  reading-book. 

see  in  her  thus  early,  the  elements  of  woman's  purei 
and  better  nature. 

It  is  well  that  kind  sympathies  should  take  deep 
root  in  the  heart  of  young  females.  For  our  sex  should 
ever  bear  about  with  them  a  nursing  tenderness  for 
all  who  suffer.  In  ancient  times,  ladies  of  high 
rank  and  wealth  used  to  go  to  hospitals  and  alms- 
houses to  visit  the  sick.  Bending  over  their  wretch- 
ed beds,  they  did  not  shrink  to  perform  kind  offices 
for  the  most  miserable.  The  "  blessing  of  him  who 
was  ready  to  perish  came  upon  them."  Let  none 
of  us  feel  that  we  are  too  young  to  do  something 
for  the  comfort  of  the  sick. 


P* 


the  girl's  reading-book.  59 


THE  POOR. 

The  sacred  Scriptures  say,  "the  poor  we  have  al- 
ways with  us."  It  is  the  duty  of  the  young,  as  well 
as  those  who^are  grown  up,  to  study  the  best  means 
of  relieving  them.  The  kind  feelings,  the  benevo- 
lent sympathies,  that  are  thus  called  forth,  bless  the 
giver  as  well  as  the  receiver. 

If  you  see  a  child  in  the  winter  shivering  and 
thinly  clad,  make  some  inquiry  into  his  situation. 
Perhaps  you  will  find  that  his  parents  are  burdened 
with  too  large  a  family  to  make  all  comfortable,  or 
that  his  mother  is  a  widow,  or  that  he  is  an  orphan. 
Then,  if  you  can  do  any  thing  for  his  relief,  or  ex- 
cite others  to  do  so,  it  will  be  the  means  of  increasing 
your  own  happiness. 

It  is  a  good  plan  to  repair  neatly  your  cast-off  gar- 
ments, and  now  and  then  to  knit  a  pair  of  coarse 
stockings,  and  to  lay  aside  a  part  of  any  money  that 
may  be  given  you,  to  be  in  readiness  for  the  claims 
of  the  poor.  Never  feel  unwilling  to  give  whatever 
you  can  spare,  but  consider  the  favour  on  your  side, 
so  great  is  the  pleasure  of  benevolence. 

The  young  should  always  solicit  the  advice  of 
their  parents,  or  older  friends,  in  their  charities. 
The  judicious  relief  of  the  poor,  requires  more 
knowledge  of  mankind,  than  those  whose  years  are 
few  can  be  expected  to  possess.  Above  all,  never 
boast  of  any  thing  you  give.  It  is  an  offence  against 
the* nature  of  true  charity,  which  "  vaunteth  not  it- 
self, is  not  puffed  up." 


60  the  girl's  heading-book. 

Let  me  tell  you  of  the  girls  of  a  school,  who  pitied 
the  poor,  and  formed  themselves  into  a  society  fo 
their  relief.  They  had  only  Saturday  afternoon  for 
recreation  during  the  week,  and  they  resolved  to 
-meet  at  that  time,  and  devise  means  how  they  might 
best  be  assisted.  Their  parents  gave  permission, 
and  their  teacher  allowed  them  to  meet  in  the  school- 
room. 

There,  I  have  often  seen  them  busy  with  their 
needles,  their  bright  eyes  sparkling  with  happiness, 
and  their  sweet  voices  consulting  about  their  plans 
of  charity,  like  a  band  of  sisters.  And  I  blessed 
them  in  my  heart,  and  besought  that  the  spirit  of 
grace  and  consolation  might  ever  dwell  among  them. 
For  they  were  my  own  scholars,  and  I  loved  them 
as  children. 

They  were  not  soon  weary  in  well-doing.  Many 
garments  were  repaired  and  made,  many  pair  of 
stockings  knit,  many  books  distributed  among  the 
ignorant.  They  established  a  monthly  contribution, 
and  decided,  that  the  money  which  they  devoted  to 
it  should  be  the  fruit  of  their  own  industry. 

They  employed  themselves  with  their  needles, 
and  received  from  the  friends  for  whom  they  worked, 
a  regular  price,  which  was  sufficient  for  their  chari- 
ties, That  this  new  labour  need  not  interfere  with 
their  appointed  lessons,  or  their  necessary  recrea- 
tions, they  rose  an  hour  earlier  in  the  morning,  and 
thus  secured  time  for  all. 

Their  Society  was  regularly  organized,  and  among 
its  officers  wrere  four  almoners,  who,  in  distributing 
their  bounty,  visited  the  houses  of  the  poor,  and 


THE  GIRL'S  READING-BOOK.  Gl 

made  report  respecting  them.  An  interesting  child, 
who  was  deaf  and  dumb,  once  accompanied  these 
almoners.  In  her  strong  language  of  signs  and  ges- 
tures, she  related  what  she  had  seen  in  an  abode  of 
poverty. 

"  It  was  a  small,  low  room,"  said  she.  "  The  stairs 
were  dark  and  broken.  The  snow  through  which 
we  had  walked  was  deep,  and  my  feet  felt  very  cold. 
But  there  was  not  fire  enough  to  warm  them.  No. 
[  could  have  held  in  one  of  my  hands  those  very 
few,  faint  coals.    And  there  was  no  wood. 

"  The  sick  woman  lay  in  a  low  bed.  If  she  sat 
up,  she  shivered,  and  she  was  covered  with  scant 
and  thin  clothing.  Her  pale  baby  threw  up  its  arms 
and  cried.  But  there  was  no  physician  there.  Then 
the  father  came  in,  having  in  his  hand  some  pieces 
of  pine,  which  he  had  picked  up.  He  laid  them  on 
the  fire.  But  how  soon  were  they  burned  up  and 
gone. 

"His  wife  spoke  to  him,  and  when  he  answered, 
she  looked  sorry.  Because  I  was  deaf  and  dumb,  I 
knew  not  what  they  were  saying.  So,  I  asked  my 
friend.  And  she  told  me  the  poor  woman  said  to 
her  husband,  '  have  you  not  bought  a  piece  of  can- 
dle?' When  he  answered  '  no,  I  have  no  money,' 
she  said,  with  sadness,  '  must  we  be  in  the  dark  an- 
other long,  cold  night,  with  our  sick  baby?'  " 

As  the  tender-hearted  child  went  on  to  describe, 
in  her  own  peculiar  dialect,  the  smiles  that  came 
suddenly  over  the  faces  of  the  sorrowing  poor,  at 
the  unexpected  bounty  which  she  aided  in  bearing, 
tears  of  exquisite  feeling  glistened  in  her  eyes;  for 
6 


02  the  girl's  reading-book. 

her  heart  was  awake  to  every  generous  sensibility 
though  her  sealed  lips  were  precluded  from  their 
utterance. 

One  of  the  best  modes  of  assisting  the  poor,  is 
through  their  own  industry.  To  give  them  work, 
and  pay  them  promptly  and  liberally,  is  far  better 
than  to  distribute  alms,  which  may  sometimes  en- 
courage idleness,  or  be  perverted  to  vice.  It  also 
saves  that  self-abasement  which  minds  of  sensibility 
suffer,  at  receiving  charity. 

To  remove  ignorance,  is  an  important  branch  of 
benevolence.  Study  the  art  of  explaining,  in  simple 
and  kind  words,  their  duty  to  those  who  fall  into 
error  for  want  of  instruction.  To  distribute  useful 
and  pious  books  among  those  who  are  able  to  read, 
is  an  excellent  form  of  bounty.  They  should  be 
plainly  written.  A  part  of  your  money  for  the  poor 
will  be  well  devoted  to  their  purchase. 

Read  the  books  that  you  intend  to  distribute,  at- 
tentively, before  you  buy  them.  Be  sure  that  there 
is  nothing  in  their  contents,  but  what  is  intended  to 
benefit  the  reader.  Make  a  list  of  such  books,  with 
your  opinion  respecting  them.  Mention  ichij  you 
think  they  will  be  useful,  and  then  you  can  give  a 
reason  for  recommending  them  to  others,  who  may 
desire  to  instruct  the  ignorant. 

The  biographies  of  those  who  have  been  distin- 
guished for  usefulness  or  piety,  are  excellent  to  awa- 
ken the  spirit  of  imitation.  If  you  are  not  able  to 
purchase  many,  get  o??e,  and  let  it  be  easy  of  com- 
prehension. If  you  are  not  able  to  give  it  away, 
lend  it,  and  when  it  is  returned,  converse  with  the 


the  girl's  reading-book.  63 

■I  ! 

persons  who  have  read  it,  and  try  to  impress  on  their 
hearts  the  examples  most  worthy  of  being  imi- 
tated. 

Thus  by  the  gift,  or  the  loan  of  books,  you  may 
be  scattering  around  you  the  seeds  of  usefulness 
and  piety.  You  may  do  more  lasting  good  than  by 
the  gift  of  clothing  or  money,  which  soon  pass 
away,  and  may  be  misused.  When  you  relieve  the 
wants  of  the  body,  always  remember  the  soul.  For 
how  greatly  will  it  add  to  your  happiness,  when  you 
grow  up,  to  know  that  you  have  enlightened  the 
mind  of  but  one  child,  and  assisted  in  making  him 
wiser  and  better. 

Do  nothing  charitable,  from  vanity,  or  a  desire  of 
having  your  good  deeds  known  and  applauded. 
Let  your  motives  be,  obedience  to  your  Creator,  and 
love  for  those  whom  he  has  created.  They  are  all 
his  family.  He  has  breathed  life  into  their  bosoms. 
He  watches  over  them.  He  has  given  them  immor- 
tal souls. 

Some  have  black  or  olive  complexions,  some  are 
red  like  the  roving  tribes  of  our  forests,  and  others 
white.  But  "he  hath  made  of  one  blood,  all  who 
dwell  upon  the  face  of  the  whole  earth."  They  in- 
habit different  climes,  but  the  same  sun  gives  them 
warmth,  the  same  clouds  send  down  rain  to  refresh 
them. 

Some  wrap  themselves  in  furs,  or  dig  subterranean 
cells,  to  shelter  themselves  from  the  cold  of  winter. 
Others,  in  slight  garments  of  cotton  or  silk,  can 
scarcely  endure  the  parching  heat  of  their  lo"2 
summers.     Some  feed  upon  the  rich  fruits  that  a 


C4  THE  GIRL'S  RE^plXG-BOOK. 

tropical  sun  ripens.     Others  hunt  the  flying  animals 
through  the  forest  for  their  sustenance. 

Some  drink  the  juice  of  the  palm-tree,  some  press 
the  liquor  from  the  grape,  some  refresh  themselves 
at  the  fountains  of  pure  water.  Some  slumber  in 
their  quiet  homes,  and  others  upon  the  tossing 
treacherous  sea.  Yet  the  same  fatherly  hand  pro 
vides  for  all. 

He  who  called  all  mankind  forth  from  the  dust  of 
the  earth,  views  them  as  one  large  family,  seated  at 
one  common  table,  and  soon  to  lie  down  in  one  wide 
bed,  the  grave.  We  see,  perhaps,  but  one  little  cor- 
ner of  the  table.  We  see  varieties  of  dress,  com- 
plexion, and  rank,  and  suffer  our  feelings  to  be  affect- 
ed by  these  changeful  circumstances. 

We  behold  one  exalted  upon  a  high  seat,  and  we 
say,  "he  is  more  excellent  than  his  neighbour." 
From  those  who  hold  the  lowest  places,  or  "  gather 
up  the  crumbs  under  the  table,"  perhaps,  we  turn 
away.  Do  we  forget  the  great  Father  of  all,  who 
appointed  their  stations  ?  who  looketh  only  on  the 
heart? 

It  must  be  pleasing  to  him  who  hath  called  him- 
self in  his  Holy  Scriptures  a  God  of  love,  that  all 
his  large  family  should  regard  each  other  as  brethren 
and  sisters.  Let  us  think  of  our  fellow  creatures,  as 
under  the  care  of  that  Merciful  Parent  from  whom 
all  our  blessings  proceed,  and  let  our  good  deeds  to 
those  who  are  less  fortunate  than  ourselves,  have 
toot  in  love. 


THE  GIRL'S  READING-BOOK.  65 


EARLY  RECOLLECTIONS. 

The  years  of  my  childhood  past  away  in  content- 
ment and  peace.  My  lot  was  in  humble  and  simple 
industry.  Yet  my  heart  was  full  of  gladness,  though 
1  scarcely  knew  why.  I  loved  to  sit  under  the 
shadow  of  the  rugged  rocks,  and  to  hear  the  mur- 
mured song  of  the  falling  brook. 

I  made  to  myself  a  companionship  among  the 
things  of  nature,  and  was  happy  all  the  day.  But 
when  evening  darkened  the  landscape,  I  sat  down 
pensively.  For  I  was  alone,  and  had  neither  brother 
or  sister. 

I  was  ever  wishing  for  a  brother  who  should  be 
older  than  myself,  into  whose  hand  I  might  put  my 
own,  and  say,  "  Lead  me  forth  to  look  at  the  solemn 
stars,  and  tell  me  of  their  names."  Sometimes,  too, 
I  wept  in  my  bed,  because  there  was  no  sister  to 
lay  her  head  upon  the  same  pillow. 

At  twilight,  before  the  lamps  were  lighted,  there 
came  up  out  of  my  bosom,  what  seemed  to  be  a 
friend.  I  did  not  then  understand  that  its  name  was 
Thought.  But  I  talked  with  it,  and  it  comforted  me. 
I  waited  for  its  coming,  and  whatsoever  it  asked  of 
me,  I  answered. 

When  it  questioned  me  of  my  knowledge,  I  said, 
UI  know  where  the  first  fresh  violets  of  spring 
grow,  and  where  the  lily  of  the  vale  hides  in  its 
broad  green  sheath,  and  where  the  vine  climbs  to 
hang  its  purple  clusters,  and  where  the  forest  nuts 
6* 


B6 

ripen,  when  Autumn  comes  with  its  sparkling 
frost. 

"I  have  seen  how  the  bee  nourishes  itself  in 
winter,  with  the  essence  of  flowers,  which  its  own 
industry  embalmed;  and  I  have  learned  to  draw 
forth  the  kindness  of  domestic  animals,  and  to  tell 
the  names  of  the  birds  which  build  dwellings  in 
my  father's  trees." 

Then-  thought  inquired,  "  what  knowest  thou  of 
those  who  reason,  and  to  whom  God  has  given  do- 
minion over  the  beasts  of  the  field,  and  over  the 
fowls  of  the  air  ?"  I  confessed,  that  of  my  own  race 
I  knew  nothing,  save  of  the  parents  who  nurtured 
me,  and  the  few  children  with  whom  I  had  played 
on  the  summer  turf. 

I  was  ashamed,  for  I  felt  that  I  was  ignorant.  So 
I  determined  to  turn  away  from  the  wild  herbs  of 
the  field,  and  the  old  trees  where  I  had  helped  the 
gray  squirrel  to  gather  acorns,  and  to  look  atten- 
tively upon  what  passed  among  men. 

I  walked  abroad  when  the  morning  dews  were 
lingering  upon  the  grass,  and  the  white  lilies  droop- 
ing their  beautiful  heads  to  shed  tears  of  joy,  and 
the  young  rose  blushing,  as  if  it  listened  to  its  own 
praise.  Nature  smiled  upon  those  sweet  children, 
that  were  so  soon  to  fade. 

But  I  turned  toward  those  whose  souls  have  the 
gift  of  reason,  and  are  not  born  to  die.  I  said,  "  if 
there  is  joy  in  the  plant  that  flourishes  for  a  day, 
and  in  the  bird  bearing  to  its  nest  but  a  broken 
cherry,  and  in  the  lamb  that  has  no  friend  but  its 


the  girl's  reading-book.  67 

mother,  how  much  happier  must  they  be,  who  are 
surrounded  with  good  things,  as  by  a  flowing  river, 
and  who  know  that,  though  they  seem  to  die,  it  is 
but  to  live  forever." 

I  looked  upon  a  group  of  children.  They  were 
untaught  and  unfed,  and  clamoured  loudly  with 
wayward  tongues.  I  asked  them  why  they  walk- 
ed not  in  the  pleasant  paths  of  knowledge.  And 
they  mocked  at  me.  I  heard  two  who  were  called 
friends,  speak  harsh  words  to  each  other;  and  was 
affrighted  at  the  blows  they  dealt. 

I  saw  a  man  with  a  fiery  and  a  bloated  face.  He 
was  built  strongly,  like  the  oak  among  trees.  Yet 
his  steps  were  weak  and  unsteady  as  those  of  the 
tottering  babe.  He  fell  heavily,  and  lay  as  one 
dead.  I  marvelled  that  no  hand  was  stretched  out 
to  raise' him  up. 

I  saw  an  open  grave.  A  widow  stood  near  it, 
with  her  little  ones.  They  looked  downcast,  and 
sad  at  heart.  Yet  methought,  it  was  famine  and 
misery,  more  than  sorrow  for  the  dead,  which  had 
set  on  them  such  a  yellow  and  shrivelled  seal. 

I  said,  "what  can  have  made  the  parents  not  pity 
their  children  when  they  hungered,  nor  call  them 
home  when  they  were  in  wickedness '?  What  made 
the  friends  forget  their  early  love  ?  and  the  strong 
man  fall  down  senseless  ?  and  the  young  die  before 
his  time?"  I  heard  a  voice  say  "Intemperance! 
And  there  is  mourning  in  the  land,  because  of 
this." 

So  I  returned  to  my  home,  sorrowing.    And  had 


68 

God  given  me  a  brother  or  a  sister,  I  would  have 
thrown  my  arms  around  their  neck,  and  entreated, 
"  touch  not  your  lips  to  the  poison  cup,  and  let  us 
drink  the  pure  water,  which  God  hath  blessed,  all 
the  days  of  our  lives.1' 

Again  I  went  forth.  I  met  a  beautiful  boy  weep- 
ing, and  I  asked  him  why  he  wept.  He  answered, 
"  because  my  father  went  to  the  wars  and  is  slain, 
he  will  return  no  more."  I  saw  a  mournful  woman. 
The  sun  shone  upon  her  dwelling.  The  honey- 
suckle climbed  to  its  windows,  and  sent  in  its  sweet 
blossoms  to  do  their  loving  message.  But  she  was 
a  widow.  Her  husband  had  fallen  in  battle.  There 
was  joy  for  her  no  more. 

I  saw  a  hoary  man,  sitting  by  the  wayside.  Grief 
had  made  furrows  upon  his  forehead,  and  his  gar- 
ments were  thin  and  tattered.  Yet  he  asked  not  for 
charity.  And  when  I  besought  him  to  tell  me  why 
his  heart  was  heavy,  he  replied  faintly,  "  I  had  a 
son,  an  only  one.  From  his  cradle,  I  toiled,  that 
he  might  have  food  and  clothing,  and  be  taught 
wisdom. 

"  He  grew  up  to  bless  me.  So  all  my  labour  and 
weariness  were  forgotten.  When  he  became  a  man, 
I  knew  no  want ;  for  he  cherished  me,  as  I  had 
cherished  him.  Yet  he  left  me  to  be  a  soldier. 
He  was  slaughtered  in  the  field  of  battle.  There- 
fore, mine  eye  runneth  down  with  water,  because 
the  comforter  that  should  relieve  my  soul,  returns 
no  more" 

I  said,  "  shew  me,  I  pray  thee,  a  field  of  battle,  that 


THE  girl's  reading-book.  69 

I  may  know  what  war  means."  But  he  answered, 
"  Thon  art  not  able  to  bear  the  sight."  "  Tell  me, 
then,"  I  entreated,  "what  thou  hast  seen,  when  the 
battle  was  done." 

"  I  came,"  he  said,  "  at  the  close  of  day,  when  the 
cannon  ceased  their  thunder,  and  the  victor  and  van- 
quished' had  withdrawn.  The  rising  moon  looked 
down  on  the  pale  faces  of  the  dead.  Scattered  over 
the  broad  plain  were  many  who  still  struggled  with 
the  pongs  of  death. 

"  They  stretched  out  the  shattered  limb,  yet  there 
was  no  healing  hand.  They  strove  to  raise  their 
heads,  but  sank  deeper  in  the  blood  which  flowed 
from  their  own  bosoms.  They  begged  in  God's 
name  that  we  would  put  them  out  of  their  misery, 
and  their  piercing  shrieks  entered  into  my  soul. 

"  Here  and  there,  horses  mad  with  pain,  rolled  and 
plunged,  mangling  with  their  hoofs  the  dying,  or 
defacing  the  dead.  And  I  remembered  the  mourn 
ing  for  those  who  lay  there — of  the  parents  who  had 
reared  them,  or  of  the  young  children  who  used  to 
sit  at  home  upon  their  knee." 

Then  I  said,  "tell  me  no  more  of  battle  or  of  war, 
for  my  heart  is  sad."  The  silver  haired  man  raised 
his  eyes  upward,  and  I  kneeled  down  by  his  side. 

And  he  prayed,  "Lord,  keep  this  child  from 
anger  and  hatred  and  ambition,  which  are  the  seeds 
of  war.  Grant  to  all  that  own  the  name  of  Jesus, 
hearts  of  peace,  that  they  may  shun  every  deed  of 
strife,  and  dwell  at  last  in  the  country  of  peace, 
even  in  heaven." 


70  THE  GIRL'S  READING-BOOK. 

Hastening  home,  I  besought  my  mother,  "shelter 
me,  as  I  have  been  sheltered,  in  solitude,  and  in 
love.  Bid  me  turn  the  wheel  of  industry,  or  bring 
water  from  the  fountain,  or  teiyl  the  plants  of  the 
garden,  or  feed  a  young  bird  and  listen  to  its  song, 
but  let  me  go  no  more  forth  among  the  vices  and 
miseries  of  man." 


THE  GIRL'S  READING-BOOK.  71 


THE  GOOD  SISTER. 


The  village-bell  tolled.  Groups  of  people  were 
seen  slowly  assembling  at  the  funeral  call.  The 
hearse  stood  before  the  door  of  a  small  house,  with 
a  vine-wreathed  porch.  There  the  minister  lifted 
up  his  solemn  voice  in  supplication,  that  the  living 
might  be  supported  in  their  bitter  parting  with  the 
dead.  A  feeble  wail  from  the  chamber  mingled 
with  his  prayer.  It  was  the  moan  of  the  young  in- 
fant, from  whom  its  mother  had  been  suddenly  taken. 

When  the  mournful  family  returned  from  the 
grave,  the  oldest  daughter  folded  the  babe  in  her 
arms,  and  pressed  its  little  face  long  to  hers.  Tears 
flowed  fast  down  her  cheeks,  as  she  said,  u.  I  will  be 
a  mother  to  yoa,  my  poor  little  one."  And  the 
upward  glance  of  her  eye  told,  that  her  heart  was 
asking  of  her  Father  in  heaven,  wisdom  to  supply 
to  it  the  place  of  that  good  parent  whom  he  had 
taken  to  himself. 

(t  What  will  poor  Mr.  Allen  do,  nftw  he  has  lost 
his  wife?"  said  one  of  the  neighbours.  "  He  is  not 
able  to  hire  a  nurse,  and  to  hear  the  poor  baby  cry- 
ing all  the  time  the  minister  was  at  prayer,  was 
quite  heart-rending."  "  Do  you  not  know,"  said  her 
friend,  "  that  Lucy,  the  eldest  girl,  has  undertaken 
the  care  of  it  ?  It  is  truly  wonderful  to  see  one  so 
young  preparing  its  food  so  well,  and  waking  pa- 
tiently in  the  night  to  feed  it,  and  so  anxious  to  learn 
how  to  nurse  it  when  it  is  sick.  We  must  go  in  and 
encourage  her:" 


72  the  girl's  reading-book. 

Lucy  Allen  was  very  careful  to  mingle  the  milk 
for  the  babe  in  just  proportion,  and  to  give  it  at  regu- 
lar intervals.  She  washed  and  dressed  it  early  in 
the  morning,  with  the  greatest  tenderness,  and  lulled 
it  to  rest  at  the  proper  hours.  She  sat  by  her  sad 
father  through  the  long  winter  evenings.  The  babe 
lay  sleeping  in  its  cradle  by  their  side.  If  it  awaked, 
she  rocked  and*lulled  it  with  a  tender  voice,  and  her 
father  blessed  her. 

It  was  a  beautiful  sight,  to  see  that  fair  young  girl, 
week  after  week,  nourishing  the  feeble  infant. 
Sometimes,  when  her  gay  companions  urged  her  to 
go  with  them  and  spend  the  evening,  she  would  say, 
"  the  baby  is  not  quite  well,  and  I  am  afraid  to  leave 
it  so  long."  "  O,  you  will  make  a  mope  of  yourself 
for  that  baby.  I  dare  say  it  can  do  well  enough 
awhile  without  you."  But  Lucy  would  excuse  her- 
self by  saying,  that  her  father  looked  lonely,  and 
since  her  dear  mother's  death,  she  took  more  plea- 
sure in  being  at  home  with  him,  than  in  going  out  as 
formerly. 

The  babe  inclined  to  cry  and  be  fretful.  Lucy 
said  it  was  irritable,  because  it  was  unwell,  and  as 
it  grew  stronger,  it  would  grow  more  quiet.  And 
so  it  proved.  She  attended  to  its  health,  and  after  a 
few  monthSjits  fits  of  crying  abated.  It  grew  lively, 
and  began  to  have  a  ruddy  cheek.  She  always  spoke 
to  it  in  a  cheerful  voice,  and  looked  at  it  with  a 
smile,  for  she  saw  that  this  seemed  to  make  it  hap- 
pier:  and  said,  "  poor,  dear  child,  it  has  no  mother  to 
comfort  it,  and  all  I  can  do  is  so  much  less  than  she 
would  have  done,  that  I  feel  sorry  for  it." 


THE  GIRL  S  READING-BOOK.  73 

.aucy  had  not  been  accustomed  to  be  disturbed  in 
her  rest.  When  she  was  kept  waking  i  great  part 
of  the  night,  as  she  sometimes  was,  while  the  babe 
was  getting  teeth,  she  could  not  help  feeling  tired 
and  wea&  in  the  morning.  But  she  never  complain- 
ed,. She  remembered  how  patiently  her  mother  had 
nursed  the  others  in  their  sicknesses,  and  tried  to 
imitate  her.  And  when  the  little  one  began  to  walk, 
and  when  the  first  word  it  lisped  was  her  name,  and 
when  it  stretched  forth  its  arms  to  her,  as  to  a  mo- 
ther, she  felt  more  than  repaid  for  all  her  toil. 

But  it  was  not  the  care  of  the  infant  alone,  that 
exercised  Lucy's  affection  and  patience.  She  had 
two  other  sisters  and  brothers,  to  whom  she  tried  to 
fill  a  mother's  place.  The  sister  next  to  herself  in 
age,  was  about  thirteen,  and  assisted  much  in  the 
work  of  the  family.  She  was  not,  however,  always 
amiable,  and  was  sometimes  jealous  that  Lucy  in- 
tended to  rule  her.  But  by  mildness  and  kindness, 
she  succeeded  in  convincing  her  that  she  had  only 
her  good  in  view,  and  induced  her  to  try  to  regulate 
her  temper  and  improve  her  character. 

The  two  brothers  were  eleven  and  nine  years  old. 
Lucy  took  great  care  that  they  should  have  their 
lessons  ready  for  school,  and  that  they  should  be 
'there  in  season,  and  neatly  dressed,  with  clean  hands 
and  faces  She  charged  them  not  to  keep  company 
with  bad  boys,  and  gave  them  the  same  advice  about 
truth  and  honesty,  and  respect  for  age,  and  reve- 
rence for  the  sabbath,  which  her  pious  mother  had 
given  to  her. 

One  morning,  the  youngest  bov  came  running  in — 
7 


74  the  girl's  reading-book. 

11  Sister  Lucy,  I  have  cut  my  finger  dreadfully.  I 
did  it  in  cutting  a  thick  board  with  father's  sharp 
knife."  She  instantly  produced  the  basket,  in  which 
she  kept  lint,  and  soft  pieces  of  old  linen,  and  salve, 
and  cotton  bats  for  burns,  and  proceeded  to  do  it  up 
skilfully.  But  the  tears  flowed  afresh.  "  Does  it  p^in 
you  much,  little  brother?"  "Yes.  But  the  worst 
of  it  is,  father  told  me  not  to  touch  that  knife,  and  I 
am  afraid  to  tell  him." 

"  You  have  done  very  wrong  to  disobey  your  fa- 
ther. But  you  must  own  to  him  exactly  how  it  was. 
Faults  are  made  worse  by  concealment.  I  remem- 
ber an  old  school-mistress,  who  used  to  tell  us, 
1  speak  truth,  and  let  the  sky  fall.'  And  it  was 
right  advice,  because  God  is  a  God  of  truth,  and  re- 
quires truth  of  all  who  hope  to  live  in  heaven  at 
last," 

Her  little  brother  promised  her  that  he  would  con  ; 
fess  his  fault.  But  she  saw  that  he  was  very  much 
afraid,  and  remembered  that  her  father  was  some- 
times inclined  to  be  severe,  and  her  heart  yearned 
towards  the  child.  So,  she  went  out  to  meet  him, 
when  she  saw  him  coming  home,  and  told  him  that 
her  little  brother  had  done  wrong,  but  had  suffered 
in  consequence,  and  seemed  penitent.  The  boy  con- 
fessed his  fault,  and  the  father  forgave  his  disQbedi  • 
ence,  for  the  sake  of  Lucy's  intercession. 

The  youngest  girl  was  scarcely  six.  Between 
herself  and  the  babe  there  had  been  another,  who 
died,  and  she.  in  consequence  of  this,  had  been 
much  indulged.  Lucy  felt  the  great  importance  thaJ 
her  moral  training  should  have  vigilant  attention 


THE  GIRL'S  READING-BOOK.  75 

She  used  towards  her  great  gentleness  and  firmness, 
and  was  always  consistent,  so  that  her  word  was  re- 
lied on  and  respected.  Soon  the  child  became  obe- 
dient, and  being  very  affectionate,  grew  happy,  and 
every  day  more  attached  to  her  sister. 

The  principal  fault  of  the  little  sister  was  thought- 
lessness. Lucy  took  great  pains  to  teach  her  to  at- 
tend, and  to  remember.  She  was  very  apt  to  meet 
with  accidents,  to  tear  her  clothes,  or  to  lose  her 
little  possessions.  Lucy  never  upbraided  her,  for 
she  said  this  was  the  way  to  make  children  bad- 
tempered  or  deceitful.  But  she  steadily  exerted  her- 
self to  make  her  think  what  she  was  about,  and  to 
put  things  in  the  right  place.  • 

The  second  sister  would  often  speak  harshly  to 
the  little  one,  when  any  accident  befel  her,  through 
what  seemed  to  be  her  own  carelessness.  But  Lucy 
begged  her  not  to  do  so,  and  said,  "  to  scold  at  a 
child,  makes  them  learn  to  scold  also,  if  they  dare ; 
and  if  they  dare  not,  frightens  them  into  falsehood." 
So,  the  child,  when  she  tore  her  frock  or  her  apron, 
brought  it  trustingly  to  Lucy's  needle,  and  heeded, 
out  of  gratitude,  the  advice  that  she  gave  her. 

The  father  was  greatly  comforted  by  Lucy's  good- 
ness. When  he  told  her  so,  she  felt  that  it  was  an 
over-payment  for  all  her  toil.  Her  brothers  and  sis- 
ters, as  they  grew  up,  blessed  their  good  sister. 
When  ever  she  was  in  doubt  respecting  her  duty  to 
them,  she  asked  herself,  what  would  my  dear  mo- 
ther have  done?  If  the  duty  was  difficult,  she  re- 
tired to  her  chamber,  and  prayed  to  Him,  from 


76  the  girl's  reading-book. 

whom  is  all  our  sufficiency,  and  He  gave,  her  the 
strength  that  she  needed. 

All  who  knew  Lucy  Allen  admired  her  conduct. 
The  mothers  wished  for  such  a  daughter,  and  the 
young  for  such  a  friend.  She  was  considered  more 
beautiful  than  those  who  flaunted  in  fine  dress, 
or  sought  for  fashionable  amusement;  for  the  warm- 
est, purest  affections  beamed  in  her  face,  and  they 
are  the  true  beauty  of  the  heart.  But  happy  as  she 
was,  in  the  love  of  all  the  good,  she  felt  the  highest 
thrill  of  pleasure,  when  the  babe  that  she  had  reared 
to  a  healthful  and  fair  child,  came  to  her  with  all  its 
little  joys  and  sorrows,  saying,  that  "  better  than  all 
the  world  beside,  it  loved  its  dear  sister-mother." 


THS  girl's  reading-book.  77 


THE  TRUE  FRIEND. 

Young  persons  are  fond  of  agreeable  society.  A 
lonely  room,  or  a  solitary  evening,  does  not  suit  their 
cheerful  temperament.  They  are  willing  to  bear  fa- 
tigue, the  heat  of  the  summer's  sun,  or  the  storm  of 
winter,  to  meet  a  pleasant  companion. 

They  naturally  wish  to  obtain  a  friend,  in  whom 
they  can  confide.  They  read  much  of  the  pleasures 
of  friendship,  and  are  anxious  to  possess  a  treasure 
which  the  wise  and  good  extol. 

Shall  I  tell  you  of  a  pleasant  companion,  and  a 
true  friend,  who  is  always  near,  and  whose  acquaint- 
ance may  be  readily  secured  ?  Should  you  ever  live 
far  from  neighbours,  or  be  divided  from  your  parents 
and  relatives,  such  an  acquisition  would  be  highly 
valuable. 

First,  let  me  describe  this  friend  to  you.  She  is 
exceedingly  like  yourself.  Her  eyes  and  the  tones 
of  her  voice  are  the  same.  When  you  are  good  and 
happy,  she  smiles  also.  In  your  sorrows  she  sym- 
pathizes.    She  makes  your  joys  her  own. 

You  perceive  that  she  has  the  qualities  of  a  good 
friend.  In  one  respect,  she  will  be  better  to  you 
than  any  other.  The  dearest  friends  die  and  leave 
us.  We  mourn  in  desolation  over  their  graves.  But 
the  friend  of  whom  I  speak,  has  the  assurance  of 
living  as  long  as  you  do,  and  at  your  own  death-bed 
will  be  nearer  to  you  than  the  nearest  relation. 

She  might  say  to  you  in  the  beautiful  language  ot 
Ruth,  "  whither  thou  goest,  I  will  go ;  where  thou 
7* 


78  the  girl's  reading-book. 

lodgest,  I  will  lodge ;  thy  people  shall  be  my  people, 
and  thy  God  my  God ;  where  thou  diest,  I  will  die, 
and  there  will  I  be  buried  ;  the  Lord  do  so  to  me, 
and  more  also,  if  aught  but  death  part  thee  and  me." 

Will  you  be  introduced  to  this  friend  ?  She  has 
some  peculiarities,  of  which  rt  is  but  right  to  inform 
you.  When  you  try  daily  to  improve,  and  are  in- 
dustrious, and  affectionate,  and  pious,  she  is  in  good 
health.  But  when  you  fail  in  your  duties,  she  is 
sick  and  sad,  and  no  common  physician  can  under 
stand  her  case,  or  give  her  medicine. 

If  you  persist  in  doing  wrong,  she  has  a  way 
of  hanging  a  heavy  weight  in  your  breast,  which 
those  who  have  felt  it,  say  is  a  severe  punishment. 
She  is  said  also  to  have  some  tendency  to  jealousy, 
and  not  to  like  the  presence  of  a  third  person,  at  her 
particular  interviews. 

But  though  she  wishes  exclusive  attention  during 
the  period  devoted  to  her,  she  is  not  unreasonable 
in  her  claims  upon  your  time.  Half  an  hour  out  of 
the  twenty-four,  will  content  her.  And  she  chooses 
this  half  hour  should  be  the  last  before  retiring, 
when  the  business  of  the  day  is  done. 

She  requires  that  you  should  be  punctual  to  meet 
her  at  the  appointed  time,  and  frank  in  replying  to 
all  the  questions  she  may  see  fit  to  propose.  And 
now,  will  you  cultivate  an  intercourse  with  this  per- 
sonage 1  It  will  certainly  do  you  no  harm.  Can 
this  be  said  of  all  with  whom  you  associate  ? 

Those  who  have  made  the  greatest  progress  in  her 
intimacy,  acknowledge  that  the  beginning  was  rather 
awkward,  for  she  is  averse  to  flattery,  and  apt  to 


the  girl's  reading-book.  79 

blame  what  is  wrong.  But  as  they  persevere,  it  be- 
comes delightful,  and  her  smile  is  a  rich  reward  for 
every  toil. 

If  you  wish  to  enlarge  the  circle  of  your  acquaint- 
ance by  such  a  friend,  tell  her  so.  Promise  to  con- 
form to  her  modes  of  conversation.  Sit  down  alone, 
and  wait  for  her,  when  the  cares  and  employments 
Df  the  day,  like  shut  roses,  are  drinking  the  dews 
of  slumber. 

While  you  meditate,  she  is  near.  When  you  hear 
a  still  voice,  like  a  soft  breath  passing  over  your 
cheek,  be  ready  to  answer  with  truth,  such  questions 
as  the  following:  "  Did  you  rise  early  this  morning? 
and  were  your  first  thoughts  turned  to  Him  who 
protected  you  through  the  night,  and  is  alone  able 
to  sustain  you  through  the  day  ? 

"  Have  you  realized  the  value  of  time,  and  labour- 
ed to  improve  it  ?  Have  you  been  obedient  to  your 
parents  and  teachers,  and  respectful  to  the  aged  ? 

"  Have  you  been  affectionate  to  your  brothers, 
sisters,  and  companions,  and  tried  to  promote  the 
comfort  of  all  with  whom  you  dwell  ?  Have  you 
instructed  the  ignorant?  or  relieved  the  poor?  or 
shown  kindness  to  the  sick  and  sorrowful  ? 

"  Have  you  been  patient  when  you  were  disap- 
pointed, and  restrained  your  temper  when  you  were 
provoked?  Did  you  repress  vanity,  and  in  '  all  low- 
liness of  mind,  esteem  others  better  than  yourself?1 

"  Have  you  preserved  a  cheerful  countenance  and 
manners,  and  tried  to  make  all  around  you  happy? 
Shall  your  last  act,  before  you  retire  to  rest,  be,  to 
thank  the  Almighty  Father  for  all  his  mercies,  and 


80  the  girl's  reading-book. 

implore  his  aid  to  advance  daily  in  wisdom  ana 
piety?" 

Happy  are  you,  if  you  can  answer  these  ques- 
tions in  the  affirmative.  The  True  Friend  who  pro- 
poses them,  is  your  own  heart.  Make  it  your  night- 
ly monitor.  It  will  strengthen  you  in  the  race  of 
virtue,  and  its  payment  is  the  approval  of  conscience, 
that  pure  gold,  which  rust  cannot  corrupt,  nor  ro*- 
ber  take  away. 


THE  GIRL'S  READING-BOOK.  81 


THE  HAPPY  FAMILY. 


I  once  passed  several  months  under  the  roof  of  a 
farmer.  It  was  to  me  one  of  the  pleasantest  and 
mosi  profitable  visits  I  had  ever  made.  For  I  saw 
continually  around  me,  that  industry,  economy,  and 
contentment,  which  make  every  rational  household 
happy. 

The  whole  family  rose  before  the  sun.  After  an 
early  breakfast,  every  one  proceeded  to  the  business 
of  the  day.  The  farmer  and  his  sons  went  with 
their  workmen  to  the  field.  The  swift  strokes  of 
the  churn  were  heard,  changing  the  rich  cream  to 
the  golden-coloured  butter.  I  was  never  weary  of 
watching  the  progress  of  the  cheese,  from  its  first 
consolidation,  to  its  reception  in  the  press,  and  its 
daily  attentions  in  the  dairy. 

Above  stairs,  the  sound  of  the  loom,  and  the 
flight  of  the  shuttle,  allured  me.  There,  various 
fabricks  for  the  comfort  of  the  family  were  wrought 
out,  from  the  carpet  on  which  they  trod,  to  the 
snowy  linen  that  covered  their  beds,  and  the  firm 
garments  from  the  fleece  of  their  sheep,  in  which 
they  fearlessly  braved  the  cold  of  winter. 

But  my  delight  was  especially  in  the  spinning- 
room.  There  the  wheels  turned  swiftly  with  merry 
music.  The  step  of  the  spinner  was  light,  and  her 
face  cheerful,  as  she  drew  even  threads  from  the 
fair  white  roll,  or  the  blue  one  that  was  to  furnish 
stockings  for  the  father  and  brothers. 

Masses  of  yarn,  assorted  according  to  its  various 


82  THE  GIRL5S  READING-HOOK. 

texture  and  destination,  hung  upon  the  wall.  Each 
one  was  pleased  to  add  to  the  store,  her  new  skeins. 
The  flying  reel  told  audibly  the  amount  of  every 
spindle,  and  pronounced  when  the  useful  task  of  the 
day  was  done.  This  seemed  to  me  the  kind  of  in- 
dustry,  which  more  than  any  other  promoted  cheer 
fulness  and  health. 

The  daughters  of  the  family  had  blooming  and 
happy  countenances.  They  used  their  strength 
freely  in  domestic  toils,  and  when  they  went  out 
to  any  distance,  rode  well  and  fearlessly  on  horse- 
back. They  seemed  never  to  have  any  nervous 
complaints,  or  to  need  a  physician.  Exercise,  and 
the  healthful  food  on  which  they  fed,  and  their  own 
happy  spirits,  were  their  medicines. 

The  mother  superintended  all  that  concerned 
them,  with  a  serious  dignity.  She  taught  them 
every  necessary  employment,  by  first  taking  part  in 
it  herself,  and  then  deputing  it  to  them.  She  in- 
duced them  to  consider  the  interests  of  their  father 
as  their  own,  and  instructed  them  by  her  own  ex- 
ample how  to  lessen  his  expenses. 

She  sent  to  market,  in  the  best  order,  the  surplus 
of  her  dairy,  and  poultry-yard,  and  loom.  It  was 
her  ambition,  that  the  finer  parts  of  the  wardrobe  of 
herself  and  family,  should  be  thus  procured.  It 
pleased  her  better,  than  to  make  demands  upon  the 
purse  of  her  husband. 

Her  eldest  daughters  desired  to  have  some  money 
of  their  own,  to  purchase  such  books  as  they  liked, 
and  to  assist  the  poor.  She  encouraged  their  design, 
and  gave  them  a  room  in  which  to  rear  the  silk- 


the  girl's  reading-book.  83 

worm.  There  they  were  seen  busily  tending  that 
curious  insect,  whose  changes  from  the  little  egg 
like  a  mustard-seed,  to  the  cell  of  silken  tapestry 
where  it  gathers  up  its  feet  to  die,  shew  the  won- 
derful hand  of  that  Being,  who  is  "excellent  in 
working." 

Their  small  skeins  of  silk,  tastefully  arranged  for 
sale,  imitated  the  colours  of  the  rainbow,  and  they 
were  delighted  to  find,  how  soon  the  wand  of  indus- 
try could  convert  the  mulberry  leaf  to  silk,  and  the 
silk  to  gold.  They  also  aided  their  younger  broth- 
ers in  a  pursuit  which  interested  them — the  care  of 
bees. 

Rows  of  hives  were  ranged  in  a  sunny  and  genial 
spot.  Beds  of  flowers,  and  fragrant  herbs,  were 
planted  to  accommodate  the  winged  chymists.  The 
purest  honey  gave  variety  to  their  table,  and  the 
superflux,  with  the  wax  that  was  made  from  the 
comb,  were  amofcg  the  most  saleable  articles  of 
their  domestic  manufacture. 

The  long  winter  evenings  in  the  farmer's  house 
were  delightful.  More  healthy  and  happy  faces  I 
have  never  seen.  Yet  there  wqs  perfect  order.  For 
the  parents,  who  commanded  respect,  were  always 
seated  among  the  children.  And  in  the  corner,  in 
the  warmest  place,  was  the  silver-haired  grand- 
mother, with  her  clean  cap,  who  was  counted  as  an 
oracle. 

The  father,  or  his  sons,  read  aloud  such  works  as 
mingle  entertainment  with  instruction.  The  females 
listened  with  interest,  or  made  remarks  with  anima- 
tion, though  their  busy  hands  directed  the  flight  of 


84  the  girl's  reading-book. 

the  needle,  or  made  the  stocking  grow.  The  quiet 
hum  of  the  flax-wheel,  was  held  no  interruption  to 
the  scene,  or  to  the  voice  of  the  reader. 

The  neighbour  coming  in,  was  greeted  with  a 
cordial  welcome,  and  a  simple  hospitality.  Rows 
of  ruddy  apples,  roasted  before  the  fire,  and  various 
nuts  from  their  own  forest-trees,  were  an  appropri- 
ate treat  for  the  social  winter-evening,  where  heart 
opened  to  heart. 

Sometimes,  the  smaller  children  clustered  around 
the  grandmother's  chair,  begging  her  for  a  story. 
She  told  them  of  the  days  when  she  was  young  like 
them,  and  of  the  changes  that  her  life  had  known. 
Especially,  she  loved  to  tell  of  the  lessons  of  her 
parents,  and  of  the  obedience  with  which  she  re- 
garded them. 

"  They  taught  me,"  said  she,  "  to  wor*,  and  not  to 
be  ashamed  of  industry.  I  had  a  companion,  about 
my  own  age,  who  once  spent  a  fetf  months  at  a  city 
boarding-school.  When  she  came  home,  it  was  ob- 
served that  she  was  ashamed  to  be  seen  doing  the 
same  useful  things,  by  which  the  family  were  sup- 
ported. 

"Her  mother  directed  her  to  go  and  milk  ftie 
favourite  cow.  which  she  had  so  long  been  accus- 
tomed to  do  before  she  went  to  school,  that  it  was 
called  her  own.  While  she  was  doing  it,  a  neigh- 
bour came  into  the  barn  yard,  and  she  was  so  much 
afraid  of  being  seen,  that  she  hid  her  head  under 
the  cow.  till  she  was  almost  smothered. 

"Whenever  my  mother  thought  I  was  not  pleased 
with  humble  occupations,  or  plain  clothing,  she 


the  girl's  reading-book.  85 

would  say,  { child,  don't  hide  your  head  under  the 
cow.'  And  this  made  me  so  much  ashamed,  that  I 
willingly  did  whatever  she  thought  best.  And  now, 
children,  never  be  ashamed  of  honest  industry,  for 
it  is  mere  foolish  than  to  hide  your  heads  under  a 
cow,  in  a  warm  day." 

Thus,  by  simple  stories  would  she  instruct  them 
in  the  various  duties  of  life.  Especially  would  she 
warn  them  to  fear  God,  and  keep  his  command- 
ments. At  the  stated  hour  of  retiring,  a  sweet  and 
solemn  hymn,  in  which  every  voice  joined,  gave 
praise  to  the  Almighty  Preserver. 

Then  the  great  Bible,  taken  from  the  place  where 
it  was  carefully  kept,  was  laid  before  the  father  of 
the  family.  He  reverently  read  a  portion  from  its 
sacred  pages,  and  then  in  prayer  committed  his  be- 
loved household  to  the  care  of  Him  who  never  slum- 
bers. 

During  my  visit  to  this  well  regulated  family,  I 
was  often  led  to  reflect  on  the  peculiar  advantages 
of  a  farmer's  lot.  He  is  the  possessor  of  true  inde- 
pendence. Sheltered  from  those  risks  and  reverses, 
which  in  crowded  cities  await  those  who  make  haste 
to  be  rich,  he  feels  that  patient  industry  will  ensure 
a  competent  support  for  himself  and  family. 

His  children  are  a  part  of  his  wealth.  They  are 
a  capital,  whose  value  increases  every  year  that 
they  remain  with  him.  If  he  incurs  misfortune, 
they  join  and  help  him  out,  instead  of  hanging  round 
his  neck  like  millstones,  to  sink  him  into  deeper 
waters. 

The  habits  which  prevail  m  his  family,  the  do- 
8 


8b  THE  GIRL'S  READING-BOOK. 

mestic  industry,  the  love  of  home,  the  order  and 
simplicity  cherished  there  from  ancient  times,  pro- 
mote the  true  excellence  of  the  female  character. 
Many  of  our  most  illustrious  men  have  been  the 
sons  of  farmers,  and  traced  the  elements  of  their 
distinction,  to  the  hardihood  and  discipline  of  agri- 
cultural nurture. 

During  my  visit  to  this  happy  family,  when  I 
looked  round  upon  the  healthful  faces  of  its  growing 
members,  their  patient  diligence,  their  moderated 
desires,  their  cheerful  subordination  to  their  parents, 
and  saw  those  parents,  not  wasting  their  strength 
in  the  idle  ceremonies  of  fashionable  life,  but  true 
hearted  and  hospitable,  independent  and  pious — I 
said,  this  is  the  true  order  of  nobility  for  a  republic, 
and  if  the  virtue  that  upholds  it  should  fly  from  the 
pomp  of  cities,  she  will  be  found  sheltered  in  safety 
and  honour,  amid  the  farm-houses  of  our  land. 


THJJ  girl's  reaeing-ecok.  87 


LETTER  TO  THE  FEMALES  OF  GREECE. 

When  Greece  was  passing  through  the  revolu- 
tion, by  which  it  gained  freedom  from  the  Turkish 
yoke,  great  pity  was  felt  in  the  United  States,  for 
the  sufferings  of  its  inhabitants.  Especially  was  the 
sympathy  of  our  females  excited,  for  the  miseries 
that  the  war  brought  upon  their  own  sex. 
f  They  were  represented  in  continual  terror  of 
their  Turkish  oppressors,  often  forced  from  their 
own  homes,  scarcely  clothed,  and  wretchedly  feed- 
ing, with  their  children,  upon  the  snails  and  meagre 
herbage  of  the  barren  mountains  whither  they  were 
driven. 

The  letters  of  Dr.  Howe,  now  the  Principal  of  the 
Institution  for  the  Blind,  in  Boston,  powerfully  de- 
scribed their  sorrows  and  their  patience.  His  resi- 
dence in  Greece  had  rendered  him  familiar  with 
the  evils  which  he  related,  and  his  appeal  to  the 
bounty  of  his  native  land  was  not  in  vain. 

Vessels  were  freighted  with  provisions  and  cloth- 
ing, and  trusty  agents  sent  out  to  distribute  them. 
Not  only  in  the  larger  cities,  but  in  the  villages  of 
our  country,  the  spirit  of  benevolence  was  awake 
and  active.  The  cry  of  Greece  seemed  to  enter  into 
every  ear. 

Donations  were  given.  Contributions  were  gath- 
ered. Ladies  formed  societies,  and  consulted  how 
the  money  thus  collected,  might  be  best  disposed  of 
for  the  benefit  of  Greece.    Even  the  poor  believed 


88  the  girl's  reading-book. 

that  they  had  a  garment  to  spare,  and  brought  it 
with  tears,  for  the  poorer  women  of  Greece. 

Cloth  was  purchased,  and  garments  cut-  out,  for 
those  of  every  age,  from  the  infant,  to  the  hoary- 
headed.  The  little  girls  from  the  schools,  forgot  to 
play  on  their  holidays,  and  sat  down  to  work  for 
the  children  of  Greece. 

Ladies  of  the  greatest  wealth,  plied  their  needles 
industriously,  that  the  unfortunate  Greeks  might  be 
clothed.  Their  servants  also  came,  offering  a  part 
of  their  wages.  They  sat  down  by  their  side,  work- 
ing for  the  same  charity. 

It  was  like  one  great  sisterhood,  in  which  narrow 
distinctions  were  forgotten.  Such  was  the  spirit  of 
harmony  breathed  into  every  heart,  it  would  seem 
that  we  were  debtors  to  the  Greeks,  and  not  they  to 
us.  It  was  the  happiness  of  benevolence.  There 
is  no  other  like  it. 

The  little  ones  partook  of  it,  and  their  smile  was 
brighter,  while  they  learned  the  luxury  of  doing 
good.  Their  voices  were  tender  and  sweet,  as  they 
said  to  each  other,  "  Greece  hungered,  and  we  gave 
her  food  ;  she  was  naked,  and  we  clothed  her." 

In  one  of  the  cities  of  New  England;  when  the 
boxes  of  apparel,  and  the  barrels  of  provisions, 
were  ready  to  be  sent,  it  was  suggested  that  a  letter 
should  accompany  them.  One  was  accordingly 
written,  and  translated  into  modern  Greek. 

It  was  received  and  read  by  those  desolate  wo- 
men, with  the  weeping  of  joy.  And  it  affords  a 
lesson  to  those  who  have  nothing  else  to  give,  that 
the  kind  words  of  affectionate  sympathy  are  balm 


the  girl's  reading-book.  89 

to  the  afflicted  heart.    Here  is  a  copy  of  the  letter 
to  the  females  of  Greece. 

"  Hartford,  Conn.,  March  12th,  1828. 

Sisters  and  Friends, 

From  our  years  of  childhood,  the  land  of 
your  Mrth  has  been  the  theme  of  our  admiration. 
With  our  brothers  and  husbands,  we  ear]y  learned 
to  love  the  country  of  Homer  and  of  Solon,  of  Aris- 
tides  aifid  Herodotus,  of  Socrates  and  of  Plato. 

That  enthusiasm  which  the  glory  of  ancient 
Greece  enkindled  in  our  bosoms,  has  kept  alive  a 
fervent  friendship  for  her  children.  We  have  seen 
with  deep  sympathy  the  horrors  of  Turkish  domi- 
nation, and  the  struggle  so  long  and  nobly  sustain- 
ed, for  existence  and  for  liberty. 

The  communications  of  Dr.  Howe,  since  his  re- 
turn from  your  afflicted  clime,  have  made  us  more 
intimately  acquainted  with  your  personal  sufferings. 
His  vivid  descriptions  have  presented  you  to  us, 
seeking  refuge  in  caves,  and  dens  of  the  earth, 
listening  in  terror  for  the  footsteps  of  the  des- 
troyer, or  mourning  over  your  dearest  ones  slain 
in  battle. 

Sisters  and  friends,  our  hearts  bleed  for  you.  De- 
prived of  parents  and  protectors  by  the  fortune  of 
war,  and  continually  in  fear  of  evils  worse  than 
death,  our  prayers  are  with  you,  in  all  your  wand- 
erings, your  wants,  and  your  woes. 

In  this  vessel,  (which  may  God  send  in  safety  to 
your  shores,)  you  will  receive  a  portion  of  that 
bounty  with  which  he  hath  blessed  us.    The  poor 
8* 


90  THE  GIRL'S  READINO-BOOK. 

among  us  have  contributed,  according  to  their 
abilities.  Our  children  have  added  their  gifts  and 
their  industry,  that  your  children  might  have  bread 
to  eat,  and  raiment  to  put  on. 

Could  you  but  have  seen  the  faces  of  our  little 
ones  brighten,  and  their  eyes  sparkle  with  joy,  as 
they  gave  up  their  holiday  sports,  that  they  might 
work  with  their  needles  for  Greece, — could  you 
have  beheld  those  females  who  earn  a  subsistence 
by  labour,  gladly  casting  a  mite  into  your  treasury, 
or  taking  hours  from  their  repose,  that  you  might 
have  an  additional  garment, — could  you  have  wit- 
nessed the  active  benevolence  inspiring  every  class 
of  our  community, — it  would  cheer  for  a  moment 
the  darkness  and  misery  of  your  lot. 

Inhabitants,  as  we  are,  of  a  part  of  one  of  the 
smallest  of  the  United  States,  our  donations  must  of 
necessity  be  more  limited  than  those  from  the 
larger  and  more  wealthy  cities.  But  such  as  we 
have,  we  give  in  the  name  of  the  dear  Saviour,  with 
our  blessings  and  our  prayers. 

We  know  the  value  of  sympathy,  how  it  girds  the 
heart  to  bear,  how  it  plucks  the  sting  from  sorrow. 
Therefore  we  have  written  these  few  lines  to  assure 
you,  that  in  the  remote  parts  of  our.country,  as  well 
as  in  her  high  places,  you  are  remembered  with  pity 
and  with  love. 

Sisters  and  friends, — we  extend  across  the  ocean, 
our  hands  to  you,  in  the  fellowship  of  Christ.  We 
pray  that  his  cross,  and  the  banner  of  your  land, 
may  together  rise  above  the  crescent  and  the 
minaret, — that  your  sons  may  hail  the  freedom  of 


the  girl's  reading-book.  91 

ancient  Greece  restored,  and  build  again  the  waste 
places,  which  the  oppressor  hath  trodden  down, — 
and  that  you,  admitted  once  more  to  the  felicities 
of  home,  may  gather  from  past  perils  and  adver- 
sities, a  brighter  wreath  for  the  kingdom  of 
heaven." 


THE  GIRL'S  READING-BOOK. 


HOPE  AND  MEMORY. 


A  babe  lay  in  its  cradle.  A. being  with  bright 
hair,  and  a  clear  eye,  came  and  kissed  it.  Her  name 
was  Hope.  Its  nurse  denied  it  a  cake,  for  which  it 
cried;  but  Hope  told  it  of  one  in  store  for  it  to-mor- 
row. Its  little  sister  gave  it  a  flower,  at  which  it 
clapped  its  hands  joyfully,  and  Hope  promised  it 
fairer  ones,  which  it  should  gather  for  itself. 

The  babe  grew  to  a  boy.  ile  was  musing  at  the 
summer  twilight.  Another  being,  with  a  sweet,  se- 
rious face,  came  and  sat  by  him.  Her  name  was 
Memory.  And  she  said,  "Look  behind  thee,  and 
tell  me  what  thou  seest." 

The  boy  answered,  "  I  see  a  short  path,  bordered 
with  flowers.  Butterflies  spread  out  gay  wings 
there,  and  birds  sing  among  the  shrubs.  It  seems 
to  be. the  path  where  my  feet  have  walked,  for  at 
the  beginning  of  it  is  my  own  cradle." 

"  What  art  thou  holding  in  thy  hand  ?"  asked  Me- 
mory. And  he  answered,  "  a  book  which  my  mo- 
ther gave  me."  "  Come  hither,"  said  Memory,  with 
a  gentle  voice,  "  and  I  will  teach  thee  how  to  get  ho- 
ney out  of  it,  that  shall  be  sweet,  when  thy  hair  is 
gray." 

The  boy  became  a  youth.  Once,  as  he  lay  in  his 
bed,  Hope  and  Memory  came  to  the  pillow.  Hope 
sang  a  merry  song,  like  the  lark  when  she  rises  from 
the  nest  to  the  skies.  Afterwards,  she  said,  "  Fol- 
low me,  and  thou  shalt  have  music  in  thy  heart,  as 
sweet  as  the  lay  I  sung  thee." 


the  girl's  reading-book.  93 

But  Memory  said,  "  He  shall  be  mine  also.  Hope, 
why  need  we  contend?  For  as  long  as  he  keepeth 
Virtue  in  his  heart,  we  will  be  to  him  as  sisters,  all 
his  life  long."  So,  he  embraced  Hope  and  Memory, 
and  was  beloved  of  them  both. 

When  he  awoke,  they  blessed  him,  and  he  gave  a 
hand  to  each.  He  became  a  man,  and  Hope  girded 
him  every  morning  for  his  labour,  and  every  night 
he  supped  at  the  table  of  Memory,  with  Knowledge 
for  their  guest. 

At  length,  age  found  the  man,  and  turned  his  tem- 
ples white.  To  his  dim  eye,  it  seemed  that  the 
world  was  an  altered  place.  But  it  was  he  him- 
self who  had  changed,  and  the  warm  blood  had 
grown  cold  in  his  veins. 

Memory  looked  on  him  with  grave  and  tender 
eyes,  like  a  loving  and  long-tried  friend.  She  sat 
down  by  his  elbow-chair,  and  he  said  to  her,  "  Thou 
hast  not  kept  faithfully  some  jewels  that  I  entrust- 
ed to  thee.    I  fear  that  they  are  lost." 

She  answered  mournfully  and  meekly,  "  It  may 
be  so.  The  lock  of  my  casket  is  worn.  Sometimes 
I  am  weary,  and  fall  asleep.  Then  Time  purloins 
my  key.  But  the  gems  that  thou  gavest  me  when 
life  was  new,  see  !  I  have  lost  none  of  them.  They 
are  as  brilliant  as  when  they  first  came  into  my 
hands." 

Memory  looked  pitifully  on  him,  as  she  ceased  to 
speak,  wishing  to  be  forgiven.  But  Hope  began  to 
unfold  a  radiant  wing  which  she  had  long  worn  con- 
cealed beneath  her  robe,  and  daily  tried  its  strength 
in  a  heavenward  flight. 


94:  the  girl's  reading-book. 

The  old  man  lay  down  to  die.  And  as  the  soul 
went  forth  from  the  body,  the  angels  took  it.  Me- 
mory ascended  by  its  side,  and  went  through  the 
open  gate  of  heaven.  But  Hope  paused  at  the 
threshold.  There  she  expired,  like  a  rose  faintly 
giving  forth  its  last  odours. 

A  glorious  form  bent  over  her.  Her  name  was 
Immortal  Happiness.  Hope  commended  to  her  the 
soul,  which  she  had  followed  through  the  world. 
u  Religion,"  she  said,  "planted  in  it  such  seeds  as 
bear  the  fruit  of  heaven.    It  is  thine  forever." 

Her  dying  words  were  like  the  music  of  some 
breaking  harp,  mournful  but  sweet.  And  I  heard 
the  voices  of  angels  saying,  "  Hope  that  is  born  of 
the  earth  must  die,  but  Memory  is  eternal,  as  the 
books  from  which  men  are  judged." 


I 


the  girl's  reading-book.  95 


THE  SLEEPIiESS  LABOURERS. 

Those  who  conduct  important  trades,  or  laborious 
manufactories,  prefer  such  assistants  as  possess  bo- 
dily vigour,  and  can  endure  fatigue.  Some  occupa- 
tions, it  is  necessary  to  continue  during  a  part  of  the 
night.  Yet  even  the  strongest  labourers  cannot  long 
bear  this  system,  unless  they  take  additional  sleep 
during  the  day.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  labourers 
who  never  slept?  And  yet  there  are  two  such. 
They  labour  for  you. 

Say  you,  that  you  have  never  seen  such  labour- 
ers? Yet  they  propel  the  most  curious  machinery 
for  your  benefit.  Listen !  can  you  not  hear  them  at 
their  work?  Their  workshop  is  within  you.  Look, 
and  see  what  there  is  about  you,  that  does  not  need 
repose.  The  hands  are  obliged  to  rest  from  their  toil. 
The  limbs  stretch  themselves  out,  and  relax  their 
wearied  muscles.  The  strained  eye  closes  upon  its 
tasks.     The  ear  shuts  up  its  labyrinth. 

The  thinking  brain  retires  within  its  curtained 
cells.  The  tongue  ceases  to  do  the  bidding  of  the 
soul.  The  head  seeks  its  pillow,  and  the  strong  man 
lies  as  powerless  as  the  nursing-babe.  But  these 
two  sleepless  labourers  remit  not  their  toil. .  They 
complain  of  no  weariness.  They  accept  of  no  re- 
laxation. They  stand  upon  the  wall  of  life,  senti- 
nels who  never  put  oflf  their  armour,  watchmen  who 
are  never  relieved. 

Other  labourers  require  supervision.  The  mer- 
chant holds  his  clerk  accountable,  and  the  master 


96  the  girl's  reading-book. 

his  servant.  The  head  manufacturer  has  an  eye  to 
his  machinery,  the  farmer  goes  to  the  field  with  his 
men,  the  teacher  is  watchful  that  his  rules  may  be 
brought  to  bear  upon  his  scholars.  The  hand  de- 
pends for  its  dictates  upon  the  ruling  mind ;  the  foot, 
like  an  errand-boy,  waits  its  orders  where  to  go ;  the 
eye  and  the  ear  gather  into  its  garners. 

The  sleepless  labourers  trouble  the  mind  for  no 
directions.  They  require  not  to  be  told  what  their 
work  is,  or  to  be  questioned  whether  they  have  done 
it.  It  is  the  custom  to  reward  with  increased  wages, 
those  servants  who  perform  severe  labour,  and  to 
give  high  salaries  to  such  agents  as  fill  difficult  and 
responsible  stations.  What  payment  is  accorded  to 
these  labourers,  who  wake  and  work  while  we  sleep, 
without  whose  aid  we  are  not  able  to  draw  a  single 
breath? 

I  grieve  to  say,  that  the  fashion  of  our  sex  has  dealt 
hardly  by  them.  She  seems  not  to  have  appreciated 
their  services.  She  impedes  them  in  their  myste- 
rious toil.  She  binds  them  with  tight  ligatures,  so 
that  they  do  their  work  in  pain.  Sometimes  they 
even  faint  and  sicken  at  her  cruelty.  You  will,  ere 
this,  have  discovered  that  the  indefatigable  servants 
of  whom  we  have  spoken,  are  the  Heart  and  Lungs. 

I  think  I  hear  you  say,  with  an  honest  warmth, 
that  these  sleepless  labourers  shall  be  better  treated ; 
that  the  lungs,  which  blow  the  bellows  of  life,  and 
the  heart,  whieh  feeds  it  with  fuel,  till  the  ice  of 
death  comes,  shall  not  be  painfully  compressed  by 
the  busk,  or  fettered  by  the  corset.  It  is  undoubt- 
edly possible  to  hold  yourselve?  erect,  without  bring- 


the  girl's  reading-book.  97 

ing  hurtful  engines  to  bear  upon  the  seat  of  vitality. 
Would  it  not  be  a  noble  resolution  to  undertake  to 
do  so  ? 

We  shudder,  when  we  think  how  frequently  the 
slightest  injury  to  the  lungs  proves  fatal  j  how  soon 
death  enters,  when  their  most  delicate  air- valves  are 
broken.  We  think  with  wonder  of  the  force  with 
which  the  heart  operates,  sending  continually  the 
whole  mass  of  blood  to  the  smallest  veins,  and  the 
most  remote  arteries,  working  at  the  rate  of  one 
hundred  thousand  strokes  every  twenty-four  hours, 
and  continuing  this  sleepless  labour,  sometimes  for 
eighty  or  ninety  years,  without  wearing  out.  Shall 
we  dare  to  embarrass  these  agents  of  Almighty 
power  ? 

The  slightest  ligatures  are  capable  of  troubling 
these  faithful  labourers.  How  dangerous  then  must 
be  the  tight-lacing  which  is  sometimes  so  rashly  ha- 
zarded. Not  the  lungs  and  heart  alone  are  thus  in- 
jured. The  stomach  is  oppressed  in  its  important 
task  of  digestion,  the  brain  clouded  by  obstructed 
circulation,  and  irregular  transmission  of  blood,  and 
the  spine  perverted  from  its  great  purpose  of  giving 
stability  to  ftie  frame. 

We  counted  the  Turks  as  barbarians,  when  they 
broke  down  the  sculptured  columns  of  the  Greeks, 
and  destroyed  those  works  of  art,  which  for  ages 
had  been  admired.  "What  shall  they  be  called,  who 
deface  the  architecture  of  their  Maker  1  If  he  has 
placed  in  the  recesses  of  this  clay-temple,  servants 
to  whom  he  has  committed  a  wonderful  work  for 
our  benefit,  if  he  has  commanded  them  to  labour 


98  the  girl's  reading-book. 

without  sleep,  without  wages,  without  troubling 
us  for  orders,  and  to  be  as  symbols  of  his  own  un- 
tiring care, — shall  we  arrest  their  progress?  tie  them 
up  at  their  posts  ?  compel  them  to  toil  in  pain?  do 
all  in  our  power  to  frustrate  their  fidelity  and  his  be- 
nevolence ? 

We  will  not  do  this,  though  it  be  the  fashion. 
These  sleepless  labourers  shall  not  be  incommoded 
by  us.  The  Giver  of  our  breath  shall  not  thus  be 
mocked.  The  blood  which  he  has  poured  into  our 
veins,  shall  flow  freely  in  the  channels  which  he 
hath  ordained.  It  shall  not  be  forced  by  our  rash- 
ness, to  burst  its  flood-gates,  or  to  be  imprisoned  in 
its  citadel,  or  to  stir  up  the  brain  to  mutiny  and 
madness. 

We  will  not,  though  others  do  it,  obstruct  the  free 
action  of  the  lungs,  or  press  upon  the  heart,  in  its 
mysterious  laboratory.  We  dare  not  interrupt  the 
intricate  and  exquisite  machinery  of  God.  We  sre 
afraid  to  do  so,  lest  who  is  the  former  of  our  bo- 
dies, the  father  of  our  spirits,  should  make  his  soused 
goodness  the  instrument  of  our  punishment;  and  bid 
the  ill-treated  organs  take  vengeance  on.  us,  and 
the  Sleepless  Labourers  become  our  foes,  and  short- 
en the  life  they  were  at  first  appointed  to  guard. 


the  girl's  reading-book.  09 


SUNDAY-SALT. 


The  uses  of  salt  are  various.  You  all  know  that 
it  improves  the  taste  of  food,  that  it  helps  to  preserve 
meat  from  putrefaction,  and  is  favourable  to  health. 
It  is  also  used  in  the  fusion  of  metals,  in  the  manu- 
facture of  glass,  and  sometimes  to  quicken  the  fer- 
tility of  cold  and  barren  soils. 

It  is  agreeable  to  domestic  animals.  It  is  especial- 
ly salutary  to  those  that  feed  on  grass.  The  care- 
ful farmer  gives  it  statedly  to  his  flocks  and  herds. 
It  is  pleasing  to  see  the  sheep  and  the  cows,  the 
oxen  and  horses,  each  eagerly  receiving  their  portion 
of  what  seems  the  dessert  to  their  simple  meal. 

Wild  animals  discover  where  the  earth  is  impreg- 
nated with  salt.  There  they  gather  in  throngs,  to 
taste  the  luxury.  In  our  Western  States,  there  are 
multitudes  of  such  spots,  which  are  called  licks-. 
Thither  also  the  hunters  repair,  and  lie  in  wait  for 
their  prey. 

In  eastern  countries,  lions  imitate  this  cunning  of 
the  hunters.  Fountains  are  there  scarce,  and  they 
make  their  dens  in  marshy  places,  to  seize  the  ani- 
mals who  resort  thither  to  drink.  This  was  so  often 
the  case  in  Palestine,  that  some  of  the  Hebrew  poets 
called  the  lion,  the  "  wild  beast  of  the  reeds." 
There,  like  the  hunter  at  the  salt-licks,  he  lay 
crouched  in  his  lair,  and  when  the  "hart  came  pant- 
ing for  the  water-brooks,"  or  other  feeble  animals 
hasted  to  quench  their  thirst,  he  was  ready  to  devour 
them. 


100  THE  GIR^S  READING-BOOK. 

Since  salt  is  so  necessary  to  man,  the  Creator  has 
distributed  it  with  a  liberal  hand.  It  mingles  with 
seas  and  oceans — it  rises  in  the  form  of  rocks — it  is 
found  in  mines — it  covers,  for  miles,  the  surface  of 
some  regions— it  breaks  forth  in  briny  fountains 
from  the  bosom  of  the  earth. 

Rock  salt  is  sometimes  of  a  pure  white,  and 
sometimes  variously  coloured.  In  Africa,  are 
many  mountains  of  entire  salt.  In  the  kingdom 
of  Tunis,  is  one  composed  of  red  and  violet  colour. 
Great  masses  of  solid  salt,  cover  the  summit  of 
mountains  which  bound  the  desert  on  the  west  of 
Cairo. 

There  is  a  village  in  Spain,  situated  at  the  base  of 
a  rock  of  salt,  five  hundred  feet  in  heighth,  and  a 
league  in  circumference.  Most  of  this  is  white, 
though  some  is  of  a  fine  blue.  At  Halle,  in  the 
Tyrol,  are  ranges  of  salt-rocks,  worked  by  means  of 
galleries  cut  into  them. 

Historians  have  said  that  dwellings  were  anciently 
built  of  rock-salt  in  Lybia.  They  are  still  found  in 
Arabia,  and  other  parts  of  the  globe.  In  the  vast 
salt-mines  of  Poland,  houses  and  chapels  exist,  and 
when  illuminated  by  torches  have  a  magnificent  ap- 
pearance. You  remember  the  palace  of  ice  built 
by  an  Empress  of  Russia,  which  was  so  brilliant 
when  the  lamps  were  lighted  in  the  evening. 

The  salt-mines,  near  Cracow  in  Poland,  have  been 
wrought  for  six  hundred  years,  and  still  produce 
six  thousand  tons  annually.  The  excavations  ex- 
tend for  miles,  and  near  two  thousand  labourers  are 
emoloved  there.    Different  parts  of  the  Carpathian 


THE  GIRL'S  READING-BOOK.  101 

mountains,  and  of  Siberia,  are  also  rich  in  veins  of 
salt. 

The  mines  of  Salzburg,  in  Austria*  are  more  than 
a  thousand  feet  in  depth.  Their  subterranean  ex- 
panse is  dazzling  with  crystals  of  the  most  brilliant 
hues,  and,  now  and  then,  the  waters  of  a  lake,  where 
boats  conveying  visitants  glide,  sparkle  in  the  torch- 
light, as  if  overhung  by  a  fret-work  of  diamonds. 

Salt  is  scattered  in  masses,  over  America  and 
Asia,  as  well  as  over  Africa  and  Europe.  Innu- 
merable fountains  of  brine  spring  up  throughout 
the  globe,  whence  salt  is  manufactured  for  the  inha- 
bitants, and  for  commerce.  Many  parts  of  the 
United  States  are  rich  in  these.  You  have  doubt- 
less heard  of  the  very  productive  ones  at  Salina,  in 
the  State  of  New-York. 

Salt  is  a  source  of  revenue  in  various  regions. 
The  Emperor  of  Austria  is  said  to  derive  £100,000 
annually  from  his  mines  of  salt.  There  are  various 
ways  of  preparing  it,  from  sea-water,  from  salt-lakes, 
and  springs.  It  is  sometimes  boiled,  and  sometimes 
made  in  the  open  air,  by  solar  evaporation. 

Bay-salt  is  what  is  made  by  the  heat  of  the  sun. 
It  is  of  two  kinds ;  the  first  drawn  from  sea-water, 
the  second  from  springs  or  lakes.  Marine-salt  is 
'extracted  from  the  water  of  the  sea  by  boiling. 
Fishery-salt  is  made. by  slow  evaporation,  and  is 
known  by  its  large  and  coarse  crystals. 

The  white  salt  of  Normandy,  has  been  quite  a 

source  of  gain  to  France.   It  is  prepared  by  suffering 

the  rising  tide  to  flow  into  reservoirs,  where,  after 

partial  evaporation,  it  filters  through  straw  into  ves- 

9* 


102  thb  girl's  reading-book. 

sels  placed  for  it.  It  is  then  boiled,  with  continual 
stirring,  and  purified  by  draining  through  large 
osier  baskets.   . 

But,  my  dear  young  friends,  I  think  I  hear  you 
say,  "  Was  not  the  title  of  this  essay  Sunday-salt  1 
We  have  been  told  of  rock-salt,  and  bay-salt,  and 
marine-salt,  and  fishery-salt,  and  the  white-salt  of 
Normandy,  but  not  a  word  about  what  we  expected 
to  hear  described.  Now  what  can  Sunday-salt 
mean  ?"    I  am  just  going  to  tell  you. 

I  was  once  attending  the  lectures  of  a  professor, 
who,  among  other  means  of  acquiring  information, 
had  travelled  in  Europe.  He  said,  that  when  he 
was  in  Scotland,  he  observed  what  might  often  be 
seen  in  his  own  country,  that  the  salt  obtained  by 
the  action  of  fire,  instead  of  the  heat  of  the  sun,  was 
sometimes  injured  by  haste  in  the  process. 

By  a  too  rapid  evaporation,  many  foreign  and 
earthy  substances  are  apt  to  be  left  behind.  In 
Scotland,  the  manufacturers  of  salt  continue  their 
labours  until  twelve  on  Saturday  night.  They  then 
kindle  a  large  fire  under  it,  and  retire  to  their 
homes. 

The  crystallization  going  on  more  slowly  than 
usual  during  the  sabbath,  those  impurities  which 
cause  bitterness,  are  separated  and  exhaled.  The* 
material  thus  elaborated,  is  of  superior  excellence. 
It  commands  a  higher  price  in  the  market,  and  is 
sold  by  the  name  of  Sunday-salt. 

After  I  had  heard  the  learned  professor's  descrip- 
tion of  Snnday-salt,  it  occurred  to  me  that  we  might 
make  it  ourselves,  though  in  a  different  way.    The 


the  girl's  reading-book.  103 

cares  and  pursuits  of  the  week  sometimes,  like 
fierce  fires,  overheat  the  soul,  and  render  it  turbid. 
Might  we  not  so  avoid  them,  one  day  in  seven,  and 
s?3  cultivate  different  trains  of  thought,  as  to  have 
Sunday-salt  of  our  own  ? 

If  we  take  the  time  which  God  reserves  to  him- 
self for  our  own  employments — if,  like  the  unbeliev- 
ing Israelites,  we  go  forth  to  gather  our  daily  food 
on  the  sabbath, — what  we  consider  gain  will  prove  a 
mixture  of  trouble.  It  will  be  like  what  our  blessed 
Saviour  calls,  "salt  that  has  lost  its  savour;  where- 
with shall  it  be  salted  V 

The  Almighty  hath  said,  "  remember  the  sabbath- 
day  to  keep  it  holy."  We  cannot  disobey  him  and 
be  happy.  We  cannot  sweep  manna  from  the  earth 
on  this  consecrated  season,  and  prosper.  But  we 
may  make  Sunday-salt, in  the  laboratory  of  a  meek 
and  prayerful  spirit. 

May  we  not  carry  with  us  throughout  the  week, 
this  Sunday-salt,  to  purify  our  lives  and  conversa- 
tion ?  It  may  sometimes  be  in  danger  of  dissolving 
in  the  humid  atmosphere  of  the  planet  that  we  in- 
habit. But  may  we  not  preserve  it  in  the  casket  of 
a  watchful  soul  ?    Let  us  try. 

Can  we  sell  our  Sunday-salt  l  Yes;  at  the  gate 
of  heaven.  The  saints  who  have  entered  there, 
"  through  much  tribulation,"  will  tell  you  that  it 
was  the  purifying  principle  in  the  rough  sea  of  life. 
Angels  know  its  value— it  will  bring  the  gold  of 
eternity. 


104  THE  GIRL'S  READING-BOOK. 


DREAMS. 


What  flights  does  the  imagination  take  during  the 
hours  of  sleep  !  While  the  body  slumbers,  she 
climbs  the  cliff,  or  hangs  over  the  abyss,  or  poises 
her  pinion  on  the  storm-cloud,  or  robes  herself  with 
the  rainbow,  and  listens  at  the  gate  of  heaven. 
Sometimes  she  takes  memory  with  her,  dragging 
her  along,  like  a  half-wakened  companion. 

Then  distant  friends  are  brought  near.  The  lost 
return  from  the  dead.  The  scenes  of  early  days  are 
retouched,  and  buried  feelings  kindle  anew  in  the 
heart.  Still,  memory  performs  her  office  imper- 
fectly, and  reluctant  to  be  withdrawn  from  sleep, 
relapses  into  it  again.  Then,  unbridled  fancy  revel's 
alone,  and  so  bold  and  bright  are  her  visions,  that 
the  waking  eye  would  fain  prolong  them,  and 
wishes  to  turn  from  the  tame  reality  of  life. 

Some  hold  it  trifling  and  visionary,  to  speak  of 
dreams.  But,  because  they  have  been  abused  by 
superstition  and  ignorance,  are  they  never  to  be  ap- 
proached with  clear  and  rational  thought?  They 
occupy  a  formidable  portion  of  our  little  span  of 
life.     They  are  sources  of  pleasure,  or  of  pain. 

Dreams  sometimes  cast  their  shadows  over  our 
waking  hours.  Our  feelings  through  the  day  may 
partake  of  their  colouring.  We  rise  from  frightful 
visions  exhausted  as  by  positive  labour  or  suffering. 
If  there  is  any  regimen  which  will  modify  their 
character,  and  give  them  the  aspect  of  happiness,  it 
would  be  desirable  to  know  it. 


the  girl's  reading-book.  105 

Is  it  of  no  consequence  whether  we  are  to  spend 
a  third  part  of  our  lives  in  the  midst  of  fancied  ter- 
rors, or  of  delightful  imagery  ?  Whether  we  are  to 
be  borne  on  airy  wings  over  varied  regions,  rejoicing 
in  their  beauty,  and  holding  converse  with  the 
lovely  and  beloved  ?  or,  whether  we  are  to  shiver 
among  nameless  dangers,  harassed  by  frightful  spec- 
tres, and  startled  by  fiery  clouds  above,  and  an  im- 
passable gulf  below  1 

Do  not  consider  dreams  altogether  as  idle  vaga- 
ries of  the  brain.  Respect  them,  and  they  will  be 
your  friends.  But  I  hear  you  ask,  is  there  really 
any  way  of  procuring  pleasant  dreams?  I  have 
heard  those  who  were  wiser  than  myself,  say  there 
was ;  and  I  should  like  to  give  you  some  ancient 
rules,  which  have  been  recommended  as  means  of 
insuring  them. 

1st.  Preserve  equanimity  of  temper.  Indulge, 
during  the  day,  in  no  angry,  envious,  or  vengeful 
feeling.  Do  not  disturb  or  quicken  the  current  of 
blood  through  the  heart,  by  any  violent  emotion.  A 
regular  pulse,  and  a  calm,  even  circulation  of  blood 
and  spirits,  are  favourable  both  to  pleasant  dreams 
and  to  longevity. 

2d.  Avoid  compression  in  dress.  Let  the  lungs 
and  heart,  the  stomach  and  spine,  be  unfettered  to 
perform  the  functions  appointed  by  their  Creator. 
To  tie  up  labourers,  and  then  exact  their  services, 
resembles  the  unjust  and  cruel  policy  of  ancient 
Egypt,  in  demanding  brick  without  straw. 

3d.  Be  temperate  in  all  things.  Permit  nothing 
to  pass  into  your  stomach  which  is  calculated  to 


106  the  girl's  reading-book. 

disorder  it.  Avoid  high-seasoned  meats,  rich  sauces, 
unripe  fruits,  and  stimulating  drinks.  Even  of 
plain  and  proper  food  do  not  take  an  undue  quan- 
tity, but  desist  before  the  appetite  is  fully  satiated. 
Some  judicious  physicians  direct  that  nothing 
should  be  eaten  between  meals,  or  after  the  regular 
supper.  Remember  that  the  stomach  is  the  key- 
stone of  the  frame,  and  do  not  abuse  it,  for  this  can- 
not be  long  done  with  impunity. 

4th.  Have  your  sleeping-room  pure  and  well- 
ventilated.  Air  it  every  morning  after  rising,  and 
strip  the  clothes  from  your  bed  for  some  time  before 
it  is  made.  Perforin,  when  possible,  a  general  ab- 
lution, before  retiring,  that  the  pores  of  the  skin 
may  be  unchecked  in  their  important  office  during 
sleep.  If  you  can  do  nothing  more,  wash  your 
face,  hands,  and  neck,  and  comb  your  hair.  Let 
your  position  be  unconstrained,  when  you  resign 
yourself  to  sleep,  and  your  face  entirely  uncover- 
ed, and  a  free  circulation  of  air  secured  in  the 
apartment. 

5th.  Be  kind,  affectionate,  and  benevolent,  to  those 
with  whom  you  associate.  Do  all  the  good  in  your 
power.  Preserve  cheerfulness  of  spirits,  voice,  and 
manner.  Keep  a  "  conscience  void  of  offence  to- 
wards God  and  towards  man."  The  happiness  of 
dreams  will  repay  your  efforts. 

6th.  If  aught  evil  has  been  harboured  in  your  bo- 
som, throughout  the  day,  cast  it  forth  ere  you 
sleep,  by  penitence  and  prayer.  Lay  your  head  on 
your  pillow,  at  peace  with  all  the  world.  Close 
your  eyes  with  a  smile  on  your  countenance,  and 


the  girl's  reading-book.  107 

resign  yourself  to  the  spirit  of  sweet  dreams,  and 
to  the  ministry  of  angels. 

Do  not  lightly  condemn  these  rules,  my  dear 
young  friends,  though  they  may  seem  antiquated. 
Test  them  for  one  year,  before  you  decide  against 
them.  Then,  if  you  should  find  that  they  fail  in 
producing  such  dreams  as  you  desire,  you  will  be 
convinced  that  they  help  to  confer  the  more  durable 
treasure  of  a  good  life. 

One  more  thought  about  dreams.  Do  they  not 
help  to  prove  the  soul's  immortality  ?  Its  clay  com- 
panion is  weary,  and  lies  down  to  rest.  But  with  a 
tireless  strength  it  wakes,  it  wanders,  it  expatiates, 
it  soars.  Thus  sleep,  which  has  been  called  the 
"  brother  of  death,"  brings  us  proof  that  we  are  to 
live  for  ever. 

Glorious  truth  !  breathed  to  us  in  dreams,  as  well 
as  written  upon  the  pages  of  inspiration.  We  are 
to  live  for  ever.  Though  we  seem  to  be  swallowed 
up  in  the  grave,  we  shall  rise  again.  May  we  so 
keep  God's  commandments,  that  our  eternal  abode 
shall  be  in  those  mansions  where  there  is  no  more 
sleep,  because  there  can  be  no  weariness  or  wo, 
and  where  the  brightest  dream  of  earth's  prompting 
fades  in  darkness  before  the  full  and  fearless  cer- 
tainty of  bliss. 


108  THE  girl's  reading-book. 


PERSEVERANCE. 


Two  little  girls,  whose  names  were  Emma  and 
Ann,  lived  near  each  other,  and  attended  the  same 
school.  They  were  frequently  together,  and  their 
parents  encouraged  the  intimacy.  In  winter,  they 
might  often  be  seen  leading  each  other  through  the 
snow,  and  in  summer  cultivating  the  little  spot  of 
ground  that  was  allowed  them.  As  the  gardens  of 
their  fathers  were  divided  only  by  a  slight  fence, 
they  could  easily  converse,  or  exchange  the  flowers 
that  they  reared. 

Their  parents  wished  to  give  them  a  good  educa- 
tion, and  sent  them  to  the  best  schools  that  the  place 
afforded.  Both  were  anxious  to  excel  in  their  stu- 
dies, but  Emma  acquired  knowledge  with  far  great- 
er ease  than  her  companion.  She  quickly  compre- 
hended a  new  subject,  and  readily  committed  long 
lessons  to  memory.  Confidence  in  her  own  powers, 
gave  her  promptness  of  manner,  and  she  was  inva- 
riably distinguished  at  all  public  examinations. 

Ann  learned  slowly,  and  was  diffident.  She  was 
sometimes  silent,  through  fear  of  being  wrong,  and 
made  her  friends  ashamed  of  her  appearance  of  ig- 
norance. She  would  plod  for  hours  over  her  ap- 
pointed tasks,  and  often  return  home  her  eyes  swol- 
len with  weeping,  at  having  missed  in  the  recitations. 
Her  mother  once  said  to  her.  "  I  am  distressed  at 
seeing  you  so  unhappy.  You  have  not  the  capacity 
of  Emma,  and  must  be  willing  to  see  her  take  a 
higher  rank  than  yourself. 


the  girl's  reading-book.  109 

K  But  I  will  give  you  a  recipe,  which,  if  it  cannot 
procure  for  you  brilliant  talents,  will  aid  you  to 
make  the  best  use  of  such  as  are  entrusted  to  you. 
When  you  attempt  any  thing  difficult,  say',  '  /  will 
persevere,'  and  ask  assistance  of  your  Father  in 
heaven.  Thank  him  for  the  gifts  of  reason  and  un- 
derstanding, and  entreat  him  for  a  heart  to  love  your 
friend  as  sincerely  when  she  excels  you,  as  at  any 
other  time :  for  you  cannot  expect  to  make  progress 
in  a  good  cause,  if  your  spirits  are  agitated,  or  en- 
vious at  another's  success." 

The  little  girl  kissed  her  mother,  and  promised  to- 
obey  her  directions.  That  night,  after  she  was  in 
bed,  she  reflected  so  much  upon  them,  that  although 
she  had  as  usual  said  her  prayers,  she  arose,  and 
again  kneeling,  implored  strength  to  persevere. 
Now,  when  her  tasks  were  difficult,  she  no  longer 
wept,  but  by  patient  study  and  laborious  repetition, 
endeavoured  to  conquer  them.  It  was  not  long,  be- 
fore her  improvement  was  obvious,  both  to  her  in- 
structor and  associates. 

Strict  mental  discipline  gave  her  an  interesting 
deportment,  while  the  consciousness  that  she  pos- 
sessed no  genius  of  which  to  boast,  guarded  her 
humility.  At  length,  a  difficult  Latin  lesson  was  as- 
signed to  her  class.  It  contained  many  words  to  be 
sought  out  in  the  dictionary,  and  much  idiom  and 
transposition.  The  recitation  was  to  be  immediately 
on  entering  the  school  in  the  morning,  and  those  who 
sustained  it  without  mistake,  were  to  be  rewarded 
by  commencing  the  study  of  Virgil.  The  others 
were  to  review  an  elementary  book. 
10 


110  THE  GIRL'S  READING-BOOK. 

Ann's  heart  died  within  her.  as  she  heard  Emma 
exclaim,  "  Pray,  appoint  us  a  longer  lesson.  This 
will  be  no  trial  at  all.  It  will  not  occupy  me  half  an 
hour."  But  Emma  had  begun  to  feel  the  pride  of 
talents.  She  had  been  praised  by  her  friends,  more 
than  was  prudent.  She  had  begun  to  remit  her  ef- 
forts, and  to  fancy  that  her  .reputation  as  a  scholar 
was  established. 

The  evening  in  which  the  lesson  was  to  be  learn- 
ed, her  mother  had  company.  She  found  it  pleasant 
to  sit  With  them,  as  they  applauded  her  remarks, 
and  said  she  had  a  great  deal  of  wit.  Her  mother 
thought  she  detected  some  pertness  in  her  conver- 
sation, and  advised  her  to  go  to  her  book.  But  she 
excused  herself  till  the  morning.  When  morning 
came,  having  retired  later  than  usual,  she  did  not 
feel  like  rising  early,  and  then  in  a  great  hurry,  and 
half  dressed,  hastened  to  her  lesson. 

Now,  though  Emma  was  blessed  with  a  very  quick 
perception,,  she  had  but  little  patience.  When  any 
thing  really  difficult  occurred  in  her  lessons,  she 
was  very  apt  to  throw  them  by,  or  to  prevail  on  her 
father  to  assist  her.  But  he  was  now  absent.  With 
dismay,  she  now  heard  the  clock  strike  for  school, 
while  she  was  yet  unprepared.  Hasting  along,  with 
her  hat  and  shawl  half  on,  dropping  first  one  glove, 
then  the  other,  and  studying  all  the  way  down  the 
street,  she  frequently  stumbled,  and  once  fell  entirely 
down. 

She  took  her  seat  in  the  class,  with  a  beating 
heart,  but  determined  to  put  the  best  face  on  the 
matter.     One  or  two  hesitations,  she  managed  to 


THE  GIRL'S  READING-BOOK.  Ill 

pass  off  with  her  usual  address,  but  just  as  her  spirits 
were  beginning  to  rise  with  the  hope  of  victory,  she 
made  several  absolute  and  prominent  mistakes.  The 
truth  was,  that  notwithstanding  her  fine  talents,  she 
was  not  a  thorough* scholar.  She  valued  herself 
upon  her  rapid  translations,  but  in  grammatical  ac- 
curacy, was  inferior  to  many  whose  want  of  genius 
she  ridiculed. 

Covering  her  face  with  her  hands,  she  burst  into 
tears.  All  hope  of  being  raised  to  a  higher  class, 
was  for  that  time  swept  away.  But  what  irritated 
her  feelings,  even  more  than  her  own  defeat,  was  to 
hear  Ann  giving  her  answers  with  entire  correctness 
and  precision,  and  finally  to  see  her  included  in  the 
honorary  band.  Complaining  of  a  headache,  she 
hastened  home,  and  when  Ann,  in  her  kindness  and 
simplicity  of  heart,  called  to  ask  after  her  health, 
she  could  scarcely  bring  her  mind  to  speak  to  her 
so  bitter  was  her  disappointment. 

Now,  when  Ann,  the  preceding  evening,  had  gone 
from  school  with  her  dreaded  lesson,  she  at  first  felt 
disposed  to  weep.  But  recollecting  her  promise  to 
her  mother,  she  said,  u  I  will  persevere."  She  scarce- 
ly staid  for  supper,  so  much  did  she  fear  that  the  al- 
lotted time  would  be  insufficient  for  her  slow  mind. 
Her  mother,  perceiving  how  intensely  she  laboured, 
said,  "  I  should  wish  to  assist  you,  dear  Ann,  were  I 
acquainted  with  the  language  in  which  you  study. 
Yet  this  would  only  be  doing  you  an  injury.  Strength 
of  mind  comes  from  vanquishing  obstacles,  and 
knowledge  painfully  gained,  is  not  easily  lost." 

The  little  girl,  looking  meekly  up,  answered,  "  I 


112  the  girl's  reading-book. 

think  God  will  help  me  to  persevere."  She  wished 
to  sit  up  very  late,  but  her  mother  forbade  it,  on  ac- 
count of  her  eyes.  So,  she  laid  her  books  under  her 
pillow,  and  with  the  day-light  resumed  her  studies. 
Many  difficulties  occurred  in  the  lesson,  but  she  re- 
flected as  she  went  to  school,  that  she  had  done  all 
in  her  power  to  overcome  them,  and  that  this  would 
comfort  her,  if  she  lost  the  desired  honour. 

When  she  found  herself  among  the  fortunate 
band,  she  felt  surprised,  as  well  as  delighted,  and 
thanked  in  her  heart  Him  who  had  helped  her  to 
persevere.  But  Emma's  pride  was  so  much  hurt, 
that  it  affected  her  friendship,  and  sometimes  when 
she  saw  Ann  coming  to  meet  her,  would  turn  away, 
and  whisper  to  some  of  her  companions,  that  "  the 
dull  expression  of  that  girl's  face,  made  her  shock- 
ingly nervous." 

The  appointed  time  now  approached  for  a  recita- 
tion of  poetry  and  dialogue,  to  which  their  teacher 
had  given  them  permission  to  invite  their  parents 
and  a  few  friends.  Here  Emma  consoled  herself 
with  the  hope  of  a  complete  triumph  over  Ann. 
Pursuits  that  required  little  labour,  she  was  very 
willing  to  undertake.  For  this  exhibition,  she  anx- 
iously prepared,  and  her  fine  elocution  and  confi- 
dent manners,  attracted  admiring  attention,  while 
her  diffident  friend  was  wholly  undistinguished. 

Ann  joined  with  so  much  good-humour  and  sin- 
cerity in  the  praises  of  her  friend,  that  Emma  for- 
got her  coldness,  and  harmony  was  again  restored. 
During  the  whole  of  her  continuance  at  school,  she 
continued  to  excel  in  those  accomplishments  which 


113 

tend  to  display,  and  to  avoid  the  studies  which  re- 
quired application.  The  advances  which  she  made, 
though  sometimes  great,  were  irregular,  and  the 
promise  which  she  had  prematurely  given,  was  but 
imperfectly  fulfilled. 

Ann,  who  early  acquired  the  name  of  a  dull 
scholar,  carefully  treasured  her  laborious  gains,  and 
through  perseverance,  surpassed  all  expectation.  A 
premium  was  offered  for  the  greatest  proficiency  in 
arithmetic  and  geometry.  "  I  am  sure  of  it,"  thought 
Emma,  "  for  I  have  been  so  long  in  algebra,  that 
such  simple  studies  are  but  A  B  C  to  me."  So,  by 
a  few  occasional  efforts,  she  would  distance  all  com- 
petitors, and  then  suffer  her  mind  to  be  amused  with 
trifles,  or  to  relapse  into  indolence. 

But  the  prize  Was  to  be  obtained  by  the  strictly- 
computed  improvement  of  several  months,  and  not 
by  a  few  desultory  performances.  So,  she  was  ap- 
pointed to  see  it  won  by  the  indefatigable  Ann,  with 
the  high  approbation  of  her  instructor.  She  con- 
soled herself  under  the  disappointment,  by  saying, 
that  "  the  premium  was  no  criterion  of  talent,  but 
merely  given  to  encourage  the  plodders  of  the  school, 
among  whom  she  had  not  the  least  amtition  to  ap- 
pear:" 

Ann,  by  following  the  judicious  directions  of  her 
mother,  at  length  attained  a  highly  respectable  rank 
in  all  her  studies.  When  she  left  school,  she  car- 
ried with  her  the  same  perseverance  which  had  been 
there  so  serviceable.  She  had  been  taught  that  edu- 
cation was  valuable,  not  merely  for  the  knowledge  it 
imparts,  but  for  the  habits  of  mind  it  creates,  *nd 
10* 


114  THE  GIRL'S  READING-BOOK. 

the  principles  of  action  it  confirms,  and  she  endea- 
voured to  prove  in  domestic  life,  that  hers  had  not 
been  in  vain. 

It  was  her  pleasure  to  sit  with  her  work-basket 
or  book,  by  the  side  of  her  widowed  mother,  cheer- 
ing her  solitary  hours.  But  Emma  soon  became  so 
absorbed  in  gay  and  fashionable  amusements,  that 
useful  employment  was  irksome.  She  said,  ".she 
thanked  her  stars,  she  was  blessed  with  sufficient 
sense  not  to  be  a  mope,  while  she  was  young." 

When  she  married,  it  was  her  ambition  to  make 
a  showy  appearance.  Rational  economy,  she  had 
neither  patience  to  study,  nor  self-control  to  prac- 
tise. It  involved  such  petty  details,  that  it  seemed 
to  her  beneath  the  notice  of  a  liberal  and  refined  in~ 
tellect.  The  regulation  of  her  children's  temper 
and  character  was  sadly  neglected,  from  that  dispo- 
sition to  avoid  trouble  which  she  had  long  indulged. 

When  faults  were  disclosed  that  required  imme- 
diate attention,  she  was  too  prone  to  put  them  aside, 
as  she  did  her  difficult  lessons  at  school.  She  com- 
plained of  them  as  too  troublesome  for  her  to  con 
tend  with,  or  comforted  herself  with  the  indolent 
hope,  that  "all  would  come  right  at  last."  But  it 
was  not  long  ere  she  was  constrained  to  say,  that 
"  if  she  was  to  bring  up  another  family,  her  first 
course  would  be  to  teach  them  that  order,  industry 
and  perseverance,  which  she  had  herself  never 
learned." 

In  a  few  years  after  their  marriage,  the  affairs  of 
her  husband  became  seriously  embarrassed.  Then 
she  was  greatly  astonished  and  distressed.    She  was 


THE  GIRL'S  READlNG-EOOfK.  115 

too  helpless  to  do  any  thing  for  his  relief.  With 
the  science  that  prevents  the  wasteful  expenditure 
of  servants,  provides  for  the  comfort,  but  not  pro- 
fusion of  a  table,  or  prolongs  the  existence  of  a 
wardrobe,  she  was  wholly  unacquainted. 

Of  these  habits  of  persevering  industry,  which 
she  had  ridiculed  in  her  friend  Ann,  she  now  felt  the 
need.  How  often  did  she  lament  her  early  neglect 
of  that  application  and  self-control,  which  in  wo 
man's  sphere  of  duty,  are  more  valuable  than  those 
talents  which  dazzle,  and  demand  admiration  as 
their  daily  food. 

But  Ann  found  the  discipline  to  which  she  had 
been  subjected  in  childhood,  an  excellent  prepara- 
tion for  domestic  duty.  When  she  encountered  dif- 
ficulties, she  was  not  dismayed.  She  knew  in  whom 
she  had  trusted,  and  that  he  would  aid  her  to  perse- 
vere. The  fortune  of  her  husband  was  not  large. 
But  by  a  consistent  economy,  she  was  able  to  secure 
every  comfort,  and  to  remember  the  poor. 

It  was  now  a  matter  of  less  consequence,  than 
when  at  school,  which  of  the  two  ladies  could  boast 
of  the  quickest  perception,  or  the  most  brilliant  in 
tellect.  But  it  was  clear  to  every  observer,,  whose 
house  was  the  seat  of  the  greatest  order,  comfort, 
and  happiness.  Ann  still  felt  a  sincere  interest  in 
the  welfare  of  her  early  friend,  Emma,  and  visited 
her  as  often  as  was  in  her  power,  seeking  to  extend 
encouragement,  or  to  impart  sympathy. 

Ann's  widowed  mother  had  become  infirm,  and 
given  up  her  own  house,  to  reside  with  her.  This 
excellent  daughter  had  no  higher  pleasure  than  to* 


116  THE  GIRL'S  READING-BOOK. 

study  her  wishes,  and  try  to  repay  a  small  part  of 
the  debt  of  gratitude,  incurred  in  infancy  and  child- 
hood. Often  would  she  say,  with  an  affectionate 
smile,  "if  there  is  any  good  thing  in  me,  I  owe  it  to 
your  counsel,  and  to  His  grace  who  enabled  me  to 
persevere." 

And  when  the  old  lady,  with  her  silver  locks 
shading  her  venerable  temples,  bending  from  her 
easy-chair,  would  tell  her  listening  grandchildren, 
by  what  means  their  dear  mother  became  all  that 
was  excellent,  the  little  creatures,  gathering  closer  to 
her  side,  would  say,  with  affecting  earnestness,  "  We, 
too  will  learn  to  persevere." 


THE  GIRL'S  READING-BOOK.  117 


FEMALE    ENERGY. 

It  is  a  pity  that  females  should  ever  be  brought 
up  in  a  helpless  manner.  It  is  a  still  greater  pity, 
when  they  think  it  not  respectable  to  be  industrious : 
for  then  principles,  as  well  as  habit,  have  become 
perverted.  They  ought  to  feel  that  their  endow- 
ments qualify  them  for  activity,  and  their  duty  de- 
mands it. 

Our  sex  should  begin,  while  young,  to  take  an  in- 
terest in  the  concerns  of  the  family,  and  daily  to 
do  something  for  its  comfort.  They  should  come 
promptly  and  cheerfully  to  the  aid  of  the  mother  in 
her  cares.  They  should  inform  themselves  of  the 
amount  of  the  yearly  expenses  of  the  household, 
and  keep  an  accurate  account  of  their  own. 

Why  should  young  girls  be  willing  to  be  drones 
in  the  domestic  hive?  In  several  families  of  the 
highest  respectability,  the  daughters  supply  by  tfieir 
own  industry,  the  resources  of  their  charity.  This 
they  do,  not  from  necessity,  but  because  it  is  pleas- 
ant to  them,  that  their  gifts  to  the  poor  should  be 
the  fruit  of  their  own  earnings. 

No  female  should  consider  herself  educated,  until 
she  is  mistress  of  some  employment  or  accomplish- 
ment, by  which  she  might  gain  a  livelihood,  should 
she  be  reduced  to  the  necessity  of  supporting  her- 
self. The  ancient  Jews  had  a  proverb,  that  who- 
ever brought  a  child  up  without  a  trade,  bound  it 
apprentice  to  vice. 

Who  can  tell  how  soon  they  may  be  compelled 


118 

to  do  something  for  their  own  maintenance.  How 
many  families,  by  unexpected  reverses,  are  reduced 
from  affluence  to  poverty.  How  pitiful  and  con- 
temptible, on  such  occasions,  to  see  females  helpless, 
desponding,  and  embarrassing  those  whom  it  is 
their  duty  to  cheer  and  aid. 

"  I  have  lost  my  whole  fortune,"  said  a  merchant, 
as  he  returned  one  evening  to  his  home.  "  We  can 
afto  longer  ride  in  our  carriage  ;  we  must  leave  this 
Jarge  house.  The  children  can  no  longer  go  to  ex- 
pensive schools.  What  we  are  to  do  for  a  living  I 
know  not.  Yesterday,  I  was  a  rich  man.  To-day, 
there  is  nothing  left  that  I  can  call  my  own." 

"Dear  husband,"  said  the  wife,  "we  are  still  rich 
in  each  other,  and  our  children.  Mone3^  may  pass 
away,  but  God  has  given  us  a  better  treasure  in 
these  active  hands,  and  loving  hearts."  "Dear 
father,"  said  the  little  children,  "  do  not  look  so 
sober.    We  will  help  you  to  get  a  living." 

"  What  can  you  do,  poor  things  ?"  said  he.  "  You 
shall  see,  you  shall  see,"  answered  several  cheerful 
voices.  "  It  is  a  pity,  if  we  have  been  to  school  for 
nothing.  How  can  the  father  of  eight  healthy 
children  be  poor  ?  We  shall  work  and  make  you 
rich  again." 

"It  shall  help,"  said  the  youngest  girl,  hardly 
four  years  old.  "  I  will  not  have  any  new  frock 
bought,  and  I  shall  sell  my  great  wax  doll."  The 
heart  of  the  husband  and  father,  which  had  sunk  in 
his  bosom  like  a  stone,  was  lifted  up.  The  sweet 
enthusiasm  of  the  scene  cheered  him,  and  his 
nightly  prayer  was  like  a  song  of  praise. 


THE  GIRL'S  READING-BOOK.  119 

He  left  his  stately  house.  The  servants  were  dis- 
missed. Pictures,  and  plate,  and  rich  carpets  and 
furniture,  were  sold,  and  she  who  had  been,so  long 
the  mistress  of  the  mansion,  shed  no  tear. ,  "  Pay 
every  debt,"  said  she,  u  let  no  one  suffer  through 
us,  and  we  may  yet  be  happy." 

He  took  a  neat  cottage,  and  a  small  piece  of 
ground,  a  few  miles  from  the  city.  With  the  aid  of 
his  sons,  he  cultivated  vegetables  for  the  market. 
He  viewed  with  delight '  and  astonishment,  the 
economy  of  his  wife,  nurtured  as  she  had  been  in 
wealth,  and  the  efficiency  which  his  daughters  soon 
acquired  under  her  training. 

The  eldest  ones  assisted  her  in  the  work  of  the 
household,  and  instructed  the  younger  children. 
Besides,  they  executed  various  works,  which  they 
had  learned  as  accomplishments,  but  which  they 
found  could  now  be  disposed  of  to  advantage. 
They  embroidered  with  taste,  some  of  the  orna- 
mental parts  of  female  apparel,  which  were  readily 
sold  to  merchants  in  the  city. 

They  cultivated  flowers,  and  sent  bouquets  to 
market,  in  the  cart  that  conveyed. their  vegetables. 
They  platted  straw,  they  painted  maps,  they  exe- 
cuted plain  needle-work.  Every  one  was  at  their 
post,  busy  and  cheerful.  The  cottage  was  like  a 
bee-hive. 

"I  never  enjoyed  such  health  before,"  said  the 
father.  "  And  I  was  never  as  happy  before,"  said 
the  mother.  "We  never  knew  how  many  things 
we  could  do,  when  we  lived  in  the  great  house," 
said  the  children,  "  and  we  love  each  other  a  great 


120  the  girl's  reading-book. 

deal  better  here.  You  call  us  your  little  bees,  and 
I  think  we  make  such  honey  as  the  heart  feeds  on." 

Ecoitomy,  as  well  as  industry,  was  strictly  ob- 
served. Nothing  was  wasted.  Nothing  unneces- 
sary was  purchased.  After  a  while,the  eldest  daugh- 
ter became  assistant  teacher  in  a  distinguished 
female  seminary,  and  the  second  took  her  place,  as 
instructress  to  the  family. 

The  little  dwelling,  which  had  always  been  kept 
neai,  they  were  soon  able  to  beautify.  Its  con- 
struction was  improved,  and  vines  and  flowering- 
trees  were  planted  around  it.  The  merchant  was 
happier  under  its  woodbine-covered  porch  in  a  sum- 
mer's evening,  than  he  had  been  in  his  showy  draw- 
ing-room. 

"  We  are  now  thriving  and  prosperous,"  said  he, 
"  shall  we  return  to  the  c  ity  ?"  "  Ah  !  no,  no  !" 
was  the  unanimous  reply.  "Let  us  remain."  said 
the  wife,  "where  we  have  found  health  and  con- 
tentment." "  Father,"  said  the  youngest,  "  all  we 
children, hope  you  are  not  going  to  be  rich  again. 

"  For  then,"  she  added,  "  we  little  ones  were  shut 
up  in  the  nursery,  and  did  not  see  much  of  you,  or 
mother.  Now,  we  all  live  together :  and  sister,  who 
loves  us,  teaches  us,  and  we  learn  to  be  industrious 
and  useful.  We  were  none  of  us  as  happy  when  we 
were  rich,  and  did  not  work.  So,  father,  please  not 
to  be  a  rich  man  any  more." 

The  females  of  other  countries,  sometimes  make 
far  greater  exertions  than  they  are  accustomed  to 
do  in  our  own.  It  would  seem  that  they  were  more 
athletic,  and  able  to  endure  fatigue.     This  may  pro- 


THE  GIRL'S,  READING-BOOK.  121 

bably  arise  from  their  being  inured  to  more  severe 
exercise,  especially  those  of  the  poorer  classes. 

Joanna  Martin,  the  wife  of  a  day-labourer  in  Eng- 
land, was  left  a  widow  with  six  small  children,  and 
not  a  shilling  for  their  support.  The  parish  officers, 
perceiving  it  to  be  a  case  of  great  distress,  offered  to 
take  charge  of  them.  But  the  good  mother  resolved 
to  depend  only  upon  the  divine  blessing,  and  her 
own  industry. 

The  life  on  which  she  entered,  was  one  of  ex- 
treme hardship.  She  rose  at  two  in  the  morning, 
and  after  doing  what  she  could  to  make  her  little 
ones  comfortable,  walked  eight,  and  sometimes  ten 
miles,  to  the  market-town,  wTi-th  a  basket  of  pottery 
ware  on  her  head,  which  she  sold,  and  returned 
with  the  profits  before  noon. 

By  this  hard  labour,  and  the  greatest  economy, 
she  not  only  gained  food  and  clothing  for  her  child- 
ren, but  in  the  course  of  a  year,  saved  the  sum  of 
about  seven  dollars.  Then,  finding  herself  under 
the  necessity  of  quitting  the  cottage  where  she  had 
lived,  she  formed  the  resolution  of  building  one  for 
herself. 

Every  little  interval  of  time,  which  she  could 
spare  from  her  stated  toils,  she  devoted  to  working 
upon  the  tenement  which  was  to  shelter  her  little 
ones,  and  "  with  the  assistance  of  a  good  God,"  said 
she,  "  I  was  able  at  last  to  finish  my  cottage."  It 
was  small,  but  comfortable,  and  might  remind  those 
who  saw  it,  of  what  Cowper  calls,  "  the  peasant's 
nest." 

After  several  years,  Joanna,  by  persevering  in 
11 


122  the  girl's,  reading-book. 

her  industry  and  prudence,  acquired  enough  to  pur- 
chase a  cart,  and  a  small  pony.  "Now,"  said  she 
with  delight,  "  I  can  carry  pottery-ware  to  the  dif- 
ferent towns  round  about,  and  drive  a  pretty  brisk 
trade,  for  I  begin  to  feel  that  I  cannot  walk  thirty 
miles  a  day,  quite  so  well  as  when  I  was  younger." 

She  lived  to  advanced  age,  respected  for  her  hon 
esty,  patient  diligence,  and  maternal  virtues.  It 
was  pleasant  to  observe  the  self-approbation  and 
simplicity  with  which  she  would  say,  when  quite 
old,  "  to  be  sure  I  am  not  very  rich,  but  what  I  have 
is  all  of  my  own  getting.  I  never  begged  a  half- 
penny of  any  soul.  I  brought  up  my  six  children 
without  help  from  the  overseers  of  the  parish,  and 
can  still  maintain  myself  without  troubling  them  for 
assistance." 

Many  instances  of  the  most  laudable  efforts  to 
obtain  a  support,  might  be  mentioned  among  the 
females  of  our  own  country.  The  disposition  to  be 
active  in  various  departments  of  usefulness,  ought 
to  be  encouraged  in  the  young,  by  those  who  have 
charge  of  their  education.  The  office  of  a  teacher, 
is  one  of  the  most  respectable  and  delightful  to 
which  they  can  aspire. 

To  instruct  others  is  beneficial  to  the  mind.  It 
deepens  the  knowledge  which  it  already  possesses, 
and  quickens  it  to  acquire  more.  It  is  beneficial  to 
the  moral  habits.  It  teaches  self-control.  It  moves 
to  set  a  good  example.  It  improves  the.  affections. 
For  we  love  those,  whom  we  make  wiser  and  better, 
and  their  gratitude  is  a  sweet  reward. 

The  work  of  education,  opens  a  broad  field  for 


THE  girl's  reading-book.  123 

female  labourers.  There  they  may  both  reap  and 
confer  benefits.  If  they  do  not  wish  to  enter  upon 
it  as  the  business  of  life,  it  will  be  found  a  good  pre- 
paration for  the  duties-of  any  sphere  to  which  future 
life  may  call  them. 

Let  the  young  females  of  the  present  generation, 
distinguish  themselves  by  energy  in  some  useful 
employment.  Indolence,  and  effeminacy  are  pecu- 
liarly unfit  for  the  daughters  of  -a  republic.  Let 
them  not  shrink  at  reverses  of  fortune,  but  view 
them  as  incitements  to  greater  activity,  and  higher 
virtue. 

It  was  a  wise  man  who  said,  "  Virtue,  like  a  pre- 
cious odour,  is  most  fragrant  when  crushed :  for 
prosperity  doth  best  discover  vice,  but  adversity 
doth  best  discover  virtue."  When  those  we  love 
are  in  trouble,  let  us  feel  that  we  have  a  two-fold 
office,  to  cheer,  and  to  help  them. 

When  man  was  first  placed  upon  the  earth, 
woman  was  pronounced  by  the  Almighty  maker,  a 
"  help-meet  for  him."  If  at  any  period  of  her  life, 
whether  as  daughter  or  sister,  as  wife  or  mother, 
she  draws  back  from  being  a  helper,  <and  through 
indolence  becomes  a  burden, — she  forgets  her  duty 
to  him,  and  violates  the  command  of  her  Creator. 


124  the  girl's  reading-book. 


THE  WIFE  OF  THE  INTEMPERATE. 

Jane  Harwood,  with  her  husband  and  children, 
made  one  among  the  many  families  who  remove 
to  the  implanted, western  wild.  The  change  from 
the  manner  of  life  in  which  she  had  been  brought 
up  in  her  native  New  England, was  great.  But  she 
never  complained,  and  busied  herself  with  those 
duties  which  befit  the  wife  of  a  lowly  emigrant. 

One  of  her  principal  cares  was  an  invalid  boy. 
The  charge  of  his  health,  and  of  his  mind,  occupied 
her  most  anxious  thoughts.  She  supplicated  that 
the  pencil  which  was  to  write  upon  his  soul,  and 
which  seemed  to  be  placed  in  her  hand,  might  be 
guided  from  above.  She  spoke  to  him  in  the.ten- 
derest  manner  of  his  Father  in  heaven,  and  of  his 
will  respecting  little  children. 

She  pointed  out  almighty  goodness  in  the  daily 
gifts  that  sustain  life  ;  in  the  glorious  sun  rejoicing 
in  the  east;  in  the  gently-falling  rain;  the  frail 
plants,  and  the  dews  that  nourish  them.  She  rea- 
soned with  him  of  the  changes  of  nature,  till  he 
loved  even  the  storm  and  the  lofty  thunder,  because 
they  came  from  God. 

She  repeated  to  him  passages  of  Scripture,  with 
which  her  memory  was  stored,  and  sang  hymns, 
until  she  perceived  that  if  he  was  in  pain  he  com- 
plained not,  if  he  might  but  hear  her  voice.  She 
made  him  acquainted  with  the  life  of  the  compas- 
sionate Redeemer,  how  he  took  young  children  in 
his  arms,  though  the  disciples  forbade  them.    And 


the  girl's  reading-eook.  125 

a  voice  from  within,  urged  her  never  to  desist  from 
cherishing  that  tender  and  deep-rooted  piety,  be- 
cause, like  the  flower  of  grass,  he  must  soon  pass 
away. 

Jane  Harwood  had  a  different,  and  a  still  deeper 
trial,  in  the  intemperance  of  her  husband.  In  h* 
fits  of  intoxication,  there  was  no  form  of  persecution 
which  distressed  her  so  much,  as  unkindness  to  the 
feeble  and  suffering  boy.  On  such  occasions,  it  was 
in  vain  that  she  attempted  to  protect  him.  She 
might  neither  shelter  him  in  her  bosom,  nor  control 
the  frantic  violence  of  the  father. 

The  timid  boy,  in  terror  of  his  natural  protector, 
withered  like  a  crushed  flower.  It  was  of  no  avail 
that  neighbours  remonstrated  with  the  unfeeling 
parent,  or  that  hoary-headed  men  warned  him  so- 
lemnly of  his  sins.  Intemperance  had  destroyed 
his  respect  for  man,  and  his  fear  of  God. 

The  wasted  and  wild-eyed  invalid,,  shrank  from 
the  glance  and  footstep  of  his  father,  as  from  the 
approach  of  a  foe.  Harshness,  and  the  agitation  of 
fear,  deepened  a  disease  that  might  else  have  yield- 
ed. Returning  spring  brought  no  gladness  to  the 
declining  child.  Consumption  laid  its  hand  upon, 
his  vitals,  and  his  nights  were  restless  and  full  of 
pain. 

"  Mother,  I  wish  I  could  once  more  smell  the  vio- 
lets that  grew  upon  the  green  bank,  by  our  old,  dear 
home."  "  It  is  too  early  for  violets,  my  child  ;  but 
the  grass  is  growing  bright  and  beautiful  around  us 
and  the  birds  sing  sweetly,  as  if  their  little  hearts 
were  full  of  praise."  The  mother  knew  that  his 
11* 


126  THE  GIRL'S  HEADING-BOOg. 

hectic  fever  had  been  recently  increasing,  and  saw 
that  there  was  a  strange  brightness  in  his  eye. 

Seating  herself  on  his  low  bed,  she  bowed  her 
face  to  his  to  soothe  and  compose  him.  "  Mother, 
do  you  think  my  father  will  come  ?"  Dreading  the 
alarm  which,  in  his  paroxysms  of  coughing,  he 
evinced  at  his  father's  approach,  she  answered,  "  I 
think  not,  love  ;  you  had  better  try  to  sleep." 

"  Mother,  I  wish  he  would  come.  I  am  not  afraid 
now.  Perhaps  he  would  let  me  lay  my  cheek  to 
his,  once  more,  as  he  used  to  do,  when  I  was  a  babe 
in  my  grandmother's  arms.  I  should  be  glad  to  say 
a  kind  good  bye  to  him,  before  I  go  to  my  Saviour." 

Gazing  earnestly  in  his  face,  she  saw  the  work  of 
the  destroyer.  "  My  son  !  my  dear  son !  say,  Lord 
Jesus  receive  my  spirit."  "  Mother,"  he  replied, 
with  a  smile  upon  his  ghastly  features,  "he  is  ready 
for  me.  I  am  willing  to  go  to  him.  Hold  the  baby 
to  me,  that  I  may  kiss  her  once  more.  That  is  all. 
Now  sing  to  me;  and  oh!  wrap  me  closer  in  your 
arms,  for  I  shiver  with  cold." 

He  clung,  with  the  death-grasp,  to  that  bosom 
which  had  long  been  his  sole  earthly  refuge.  "  Sing 
louder,  a  little  louder,  dearest  mother,  I  cannot  hear 
you."  Tremulous  tones,  like  those  of  a  broken 
harp,  rose  above  her  grief,  to  comfort  the  dying 
child.  One  sigh  of  icy  breath  was  upon  Jaer  cheek, 
as  she  joined  it  to  his,  one  shudder,  and  all  was 
over. 

She  stretched  the  body  on  the  bed,  and  kneeling 
beside  it,  hid  her  face  in  that  grief  which  none  but 
mothers  feel.    It  was  a  deep  and  sacred  solitude— 


the  girl's  reading-eooe.  127 

alone  with  the  dead.  Only  the  soft  breathings  of 
the  sleeping  babe  were  heard.  Then  the  silence 
was  broken  by  a  piercing  voice  of  supplication  for 
strength,  to  endure.  The  petition,  which  began  in 
weakness,  closed  in  faith.  It  became  a  prayer  of 
thanksgiving  to  him  who  had  released  the  dove-like 
spirit  from  its  prison  house  of  pain,  to  share  the  bliss 
of  angels. 

She  arose  from  her  knees,  and  bent  calmly  over 
the  dead.  The  placid  features  wore  the  same  smile 
as  when  he  had  spoken  of  Jesus.  She  smoothed 
the  shining  locks  around  the  pure  forehead,  and 
gazed  long  on  what  was  to  her  so  beautiful.  Amid 
her  tears  was  an  expression,  chastened  and  sublime, 
as  of  one  who  gives  a  cherub  back  to  God. 

The  father  entered  carelessly.  She  pointed  to 
the  pale,  immoveable  brow.  "  See,  he  no  longer 
suffers."  He  drew  near,  and  looked  with  surprise 
on  the  dead.  A  few  natural  tears  forced  their  way, 
and  fell  upon  the  face  of  the  first-born,  who  was 
once  his  pride.  He  even  spoke  tenderly  to  the 
emaciated  mother,  and  she,  who  a  few  moments 
before,  felt  raised  above  the  sway  of  grief,  wept  like 
an  infant,  as  those  few  affectionate  tones  touched 
the  sealed  fountains  of  other  years. 

James  Harwood  returned  from  the  funeral  of  the 
child  in  ni^ch  mental  distress.  His  sins  were  brought 
to  remembrance,  and  reflection  was  misery.  Sleep 
was  disturbed  by  visions  of  his  neglected  boy.  In 
broken  dreams,  he  fancied  that  he  heard  him  cough 
ing  from  his  low  bed,  as  he  was  wont  to  do.  With 
a  strange  disposition  of  kindness  he  felt  constrained 


128  the  girl's  reading-book. 

to  go  to  him,  but  his  limbs  refused  their  office.  Then 
a  little,  thin,  dead,  hand,  would  be  thrust  from  the 
dark  giave,  and  beckon  him  to  follow  to  the  unseen 
world. 

While  conscience' thus  haunted  him  with  terrors, 
many  prayers  arose  from  pitying  and  pious  hearts, 
that  he  might  now  be  led  to  repentance.  There 
was,  indeed,  a  change  in  his  habits;  and  she, $vho 
was  above  all  others  interested  in  his  reformation, 
spared  no  effort  to  win  him  back  to  the  path  of 
virtue,  and  to  sooth  his  accusing  spirit  into  peace 
with  itself,  and  obedience  to  its  God. 

Yet  was  she  doomed  to  witness  the  full  force  of 
the  conflict  of  grief  and  remorse  against  intemper- 
ance, only  to  see  them  suddenly  overthrown.  The 
reviving  goodness,  with  whose  promise  she  had  so 
solaced  herself,  as  even  to  give  thanks  that  her  be- 
loved son  had  not  died  in  vain,  was  transient  as  the 
morning-dew.  Habits  of  industry,  which  seemed  to 
have  been  springing  up,  proved  themselves  to  be 
without  root. 

The  dead,  and  his  cruelty  to  the  dead,  were  alike 
forgotten.  Disaffection  to  that  tender  and  trusting 
wife,  who  "against  hope,  had  believed  in  hope," 
resumed  its  habitual  sway.  The  friends  who  had 
alternately  reproved  and  encouraged  him,  felt  that 
their  efforts  were  of  no  avail.  Intemperance,  like 
the  "  strong  man  armed,"  took  final  possession  of  a 
soul,  that  lifted  no  prayer  for  aid  to  the  Holy  Spirit, 
and  ceased  to  stir  itself  up  to  struggle  with  the 
destroyer. 

To  lay  waste  the  comfort  of  his  wife,  seemed  now 


the  girl's  reading-book.  129 

the  principal  object  of  this  miserable  man.  Day- 
after  da)r,  did  she  witness  for  herself  and  for  her 
household,  the  fearful  changes  of  his  causeless  anger 
and  brutal  tyranny.  She  felt  the  utter  necessity  of 
deriving  consolation,  and  the  power  of  endurance, 
wholly  from  above. 

She  was  faithful  in  the  discharge  of  the  difficult 
duties  that  devolved  upon  her,  and  especially  care- 
ful not  to  irritate  him  by  reproaches  or  a  gloomy 
countenance.  Yet  she  could  not  sometimes  prevent 
from  rising  mournfully  to  her  view,  her  sweet  native 
village, — the  peaceful  home  and  fond  friends  of  her 
childhood  so  far  away,— and  the  constant,  endear- 
ing attentions,  which  won  her  early  love  for  one 
whose  ill-treatment  now  strewed  her  path  with 
thorns. 

In  this  new  and  solitary  settlement,  she  had  no 
relative  to  protect  her  from  his  insolence  ;  she  felt 
that  she  was  entirely  in  his  poffcer, — that  it  was  a 
power  without  generosity, — and  that  there  is  no 
tyranny  so  entire  and  terrible,  as  that  of  an  alienated 
and  intemperate  husband. 

Still,  looking  to  her  Father  in  Heaven,  she  found 
her  courage  revive,  and  deepen  into  a  childlike  con- 
fidence. After  putting  her  children  to  bed,  as  she 
sat  alone,  evening  after  evening, — while  the  joys  of 
early  days,. and  the  sorrows  of  maturity,  passed  in 
review  before  her,  she  questioned  her  heart  what 
had  been  its  gain  from  Heaven's  discipline,  and 
whether  she  was  to  sustain  that  greatest  of  all 
losses,  the  loss  of  the  spiritual  benefit  intended  by 
affliction. 


•130  the  girl's  reading-book. 

The  absences  of  her  husband  grew  more  fre- 
quent and  protracted.  Once,  during  the  third  night 
of  his  departure,  she  knew  not  where,  she  lay  sleep- 
less, listening  for  his  footsteps.  Sometimes  she  fan- 
cied she  heard  his  shouts  of  wild  laughter,  but  it 
was  only  the  shriek  of  the  tempest.  Then,  she 
thought  the  sounds  of  his  frenzied  anger  rang  in  her 
ears.  It  was  the  roar  of  the  hoarse  wind  through 
the  forest. 

All  night  long  she  listened  to  these  tumults,  and 
hushed  and  sang  to  her  affrighted  babe.  Early  in 
the  morning,  her  eye  was  attracted  by  a  group  com- 
ing up  slowly  from  the  river  which  ran  near  her 
dwelling.  A  terrible  foreboding  came  upon  her. 
She  thought  they  bore  a  corpse.  It  was,  indeed,  the 
corpse  of  her  husband.  He  had  been  drowned,  as  it 
was  supposed,  during  the  darkness  of  the  preceding 
night,  while  attempting  to  cross  a  bridge  of  logs, 
which  had  been  broken  by  the  swollen  waters. 

Utter  prostration  of  spirit  came  over  the  desolate 
mourner.  Her  energies  were  broken,  and  her  heart 
withered.  She  had  sustained  the  hardships  of  emi- 
gration and  the  privations  of  poverty,  the  burdens 
of  unceasing  toil  and  unrequited  care,  without  mur- 
muring. She  had  laid  her  first-born  in  the  grave, 
with  resignation,  for  faith  had  heard  her  Redeemer 
saying,  "  Suffer  the  little  one  to  come  unto  me." 

She  had  seen  him,  in  whom  her  heart's  young  af- 
fections were  garnered  up,  become  a  prey  to  vice 
the  most  disgusting  and  destructive.  Yet  she  had 
borne  up  under  all.  One  hope  had  lingered  with 
her,  as  an  "  anchor  of  the  soul,"  the  hope  that  he 


THE  GIRL'S  READING-BOOK.  131 

might  yet  repent  and  be  reclaimed.  But  now  he 
had  died  in  his  sin.  The  deadly  leprosy  which  had 
stolen  over  his  heart,  could  no  more  be  "  purged 
with  sacrifice,  or  offering,  forever." 

She  knew  not  that  a  single  prayer  for  mercy  had 
preceded  the  soul  on  its  passage  to  the  judge's  bar. 
There  were  bitter  dregs  in  this  cup  of  wo.  which 
she  had  never  before  tasted.  With  heaviness  of  an 
unspoken  and  peculiar  nature,  was  the  victim  of 
intemperance  borne  from  the  house  that  he  had 
troubled,  and  buried  by  the  side  of  his  son,  to  whose 
tender  years  he  had  been  an  unnatural  enemy. 
And  among  those  who  surrounded  his  open  grave, 
there  was  sorrow,  bearing  the  features  of  that  fear- 
ful "  sorrow  which  is  without  hope." 


132  the  girl's  reading-book. 


"I  HAVE  SEEN  AN  END  OF  ALIi  FERFEC- 

TlOlH.n— Psalms. 

I  have  seen  a  man  in  the  glory  of  his  days,  in  the 
pride  of  his  strength.  He  was  built  like  the  strong 
oak,  that  strikes  its  root  deep  in  the  earth — like  the 
tall  cedar,  that  lifts  its  head  above  the  trees  of  the 
forest. 

He  feared  no  danger, — he  felt  no  sickness. — he 
wondered  why  any  should  groan  or  sigh  at  pam." 
His  mind  was  vigorous  like  his  body.  He  M'as  per- 
plexed at  no.  intricacy,  he  was  daunted  at  no  obsta- 
cle. Into  hidden  things  he  searched,  and  what  was 
crooked  he  made  plain. 

He  went  forth  boldly  upon  the  face  of  the  mighty 
deep.  He  surveyed  the  nations  of  the  earth.  He 
measured  the  distances  of  the  stars,  and  called  them 
by  their  names.  He  gloried  in  the  extent  of  his 
knowledge,  in  the  vigour  of  his  understanding,  and 
strove  to  search  even  into  what  the  Almighty  had 
concealed. 

And  when  I  looked  upon  him,  I  said  with  the 
poet,  "what  a  piece  of  work  is  man  !  how  noble  in 
reason !  how  infinite  in  faculties !  in  form  and 
moving,  how  express  and  admirable !  in  action, 
how  like  an  angel!  in  apprehension,  how  like  a 
god !" 

I  returned — but  his  look  was  no  more  lofty,  nor 
his  step  proud.  His  broken  frame  was  like  some 
ruined  tower.  His  hairs  were  white  and  scattered, 
and  his  eye  gazed  vacantly  upon  the  passers  by. 


the  girl's  reading-book.  133 

The  vigour  of  his  intellect  was  wasted,  and  of  all 
that  he  had  gained  by  study,  nothing  remained. 

He  feared  when  there^vas  no  danger,  and  when 
there  was  no  sorrow,  he  wept.  His  decaying 
memory  had  become  treacherous.  It  showed  him 
only  broken  images  of  the  glory  that  was  de- 
parted. 

His  house  was  to  him  like  a  strange  land,  and  his 
friends  were  counted  as  enemies.  He  thought  him- 
self strong  and  healthful,  while  his  feet  tottered  on 
the  verge  of  the  grave. 

He  said  of  his  son,  "  he  is  my  tyrother ;"  of  his 
daughter,  "  I  know  her  not."  He  even  inquired 
what  was  his  own  name.  And  as  I  gazed  mournful- 
ly upon  him,  one  who  supported  his  feeble  frame 
and  ministered  to  his  many  wants,  said  to  me,  "  Let 
thine  heart  receive  instruction,  for  thou  hast  seen 
an  end  of  all  perfection." 

I  have  seen  a  beautiful  female,  treading  the  first 
stages  of  youth,  and  entering  joyfully  into  the  plea- 
sures of  life.  The  glance  of  her  eye  was  variable 
and  sweet,  and  on  her  cheek  trembled  something 
like  the  first  blush  of  morning ;  her  lips  moved,  and 
there  was  melody;  and  when  she  floated  in  the 
dance,  her  light  form,  like  the  aspen,  seemed  to 
move  with  every  breeze. 

I  returned — she  was  not  in  the  dance.  I  sought 
her  among  her  gay  companions,  but  I  found  her 
not.  Her  eye  sparkled  not  there,  the  music  of  her 
voice  was  silent.     She  rejoiced  on  earth  no  more. 

I  saw  a  train,  sable,  and  slow-paced.  Sadly  they 
bcfre  toward  an  open  grave,  what  once  was  animated 
12 


134  the  girl's  reading-book. 

and  beautiful.  As  they  drew  near,  they  paused,  and 
a  voice  broke  the  solemn  silence. 

"Man,  that  is  born  of  "woman,  is  of  few  days, 
and  full  of  trouble.  He  cometh  forth  like  a  flower, 
and  is  cut  down ;  he  fleeth  also  as  a  shadow,  and 
never  continueth  in  one  stay." 

Then  they  let  down  into  the  deep,  dark  pit,  that 
maiden  whose  lips,  but  a  few  days  since,  were  like 
the  half  blown  rosebud.  I  shuddered  at  the  sound 
of  clods  falling  upon  the  hollow  coffin. 

Then  I  heard  a  voice  saying,  "earth  to  earth, 
ashes  to  ashes^dust  to  dust."  They  covered  her 
with  the  damp  ^soil,  and  the  uprooted  turf  of  the 
valley,  and  turned  again  to  their  own  homes. 

But  one  mourner  lingered  to  cast  himself  upon 
the  tomb.  And  as-  he  wept,  he  said,  "  there  is  no 
beauty,  nor  grace,  nor  loveliness,  but  what  vanish- 
eth  like  the  morning  dew.  I  have  seen  an  end  of 
all  perfection." 

I  saw  a  fair  white  dwelling,  behind  shady  trees. 
Flowers  were  cultivated  around  it.  The  clustering 
vine  wreathed  above  its  door,  and  the  woodbine 
looked  in  at  its  windows.  A  mother  was  there  fond- 
ling her  young  babe.  Another,  who  had  just  learn- 
ed to  lisp  its  first  wishes,  sat  on  the  father's  knee. 
He  looked  on  them  all,  with  a  loving  smile,  and  a 
heart  full  of  happiness. 

I  returned — the  flowers  had  perished,  the  vine  was 
dead  at  the  root.  Weeds  towered  where  the  wood- 
bine blossomed,  and  tangled  grass  sprung  up  by  the 
hreshold  where  many  feet  used  to  tread.     There 

/ 


the  girl's  reading-book.  135 

was  no  sound  of  sporting  children,  or  of  the  mother 
singing  to  her  babe. 

I  turned  my  steps  to  the  church-yard.  Three 
new  mounds  were  added  there.  That  mother  slept 
between  her  sons.  A  lonely  man  was  bowing  down 
there,  whose  face  I  did  not  see.  But  I  knew  his 
voice,  when  he  said  in  his  low  prayer  of  sorrow, 
"  Thou  hast  made  desolate  all  my  company."  The 
tall  grass  rustled  and  sighed  in  the  cold  east  wind. 
Methought  it  said,  "  See,  an  end  of  all  perfection." 

I  saw  an  infant  with  a  ruddy  brow,  and  a  form 
like  polished  ivory.  Its  motions  were  graceful,  and 
its  merry  laughter  made  other  hearts  glad.  Some- 
times it  wept,  and  again  it  rejoiced,  when  none  knew 
why.  But  whether  its  cheek  dimpled  with  smiles, 
or  its  blue  eye  shone  more  brilliant  through  tears 
it  was  beautiful.  /. 

It  was  beautiful,  because  it  was  innocent.  And 
care-worn  and  sinful  men,  admired,  when  they  be- 
held it.  It  was  like  the  first  blossom  which  some 
cherished  plant  has  put  forth,  whose  cup  sparkles 
with  a  dew-drop,  and  whose  head  reclines  upon  the 
parent-stem. 

Again  I  looked.  It  had  become  a  child.  The* 
lamp  of  reason  had  beamed  into  its  mind.  It  was 
simple,  and  single-hearted,  and  a  follower  of  the 
truth.  It  loved  every  little  bird  that  sang  in  the 
trees,  and  every  fresh  blossom.  Its  heart  danced 
with  joy,  as  it  looked  around  on  this  good  and  plea- 
sant world. 

It  stood  like  a  lamb  before  its  teachers,  it  bowed 
its  ear  to  instruction,  it  walked  in  the  way  of  know- 


136  the  girl's  reading-book. 

ledge.  It  was  not  proud  or  stubborn  or  envious; 
and  it  had  never  heard  of  the  vices  and  vanities  of 
the  world.  And  when  I  looked  upon  it,  I  remem- 
bered our  Saviour's  words,  "  Except  ye  become  as 
little  children,  ye  cannx>t  enter  into  the  kingdom  of 
heaven." 

I  sayv  a  man  whom  the  world  calls  honourable. 
Many  waited  for  his  smile.  They  pointed  to  the 
fields  that  were  his,  and  talked  of  the  silver  and  gold 
which  he  had  gathered.  They  praised  the  stateli- 
ness  of  his  domes,  and  extolled  the  honour  of  his 
family. 

But  the  secret  language  of  his  heart  was,  "  by  my 
wisdom  have  I  gotten  all  this."  So  he  returned  no 
thanks  to  God,  neither  did  he  fear  or  serve  him. 
As  I  passed  along,  I  heard  the  complaints  of  the 
labourers  who  had  reaped  his  fields,  and  the  cries 
of  the  poor,  whose  covering  he  had  taken  away. 

The  sound  of  feasting  and  revelry  \yas  in  his 
mansion,  and  the  unfed  beggar  came  tottering  from 
his  door.  But  he  considered  not  that  the  cries  of 
the  oppressed  were  continually  entering  into  the 
ears  of  the  Most  High. 

And  when  I  knew  that  this  man  was  the  docile 
child  whom  I  had  loved,  the  beautiful  infant  on 
whom  I  had  gazed  with  delight,  I  said  in  my  bitter- 
ness, "I have  seen  an  end  of  all  perfection."  So  I 
laid  my  mouth  in  the  dust. 


the  girl's  reading-book.  137 


MRS.  ELIZABETH  ROWE. 

Mrs.  Elizabeth  Rowe  was  born  at  Ilchester,  in 
England,  September  11th,  1674.  Her  parents  were 
distinguished  for  integrity,  benevolence,  and  piety. 
In  early  childhood,  she  displayed  a  desire  to  profit 
by  their  precepts  and  follow  their  example. 

She  had  an  only  sister,  whom  she  tenderly  loved. 
They  always  wished  to  be  together.  Side  by  side, 
they  studied,  worked,  warbled  the  same  hymn,  and 
had  no  idea  of  a  separate  enjoyment.  But  the  eldest, 
was  smitten  in  her  youth  and  loveliness,  and  the 
lonely  survivor  walked  on,  with  the  burden  of  a 
deep  sorrow. 

This  affliction  seemed  to  deepen  the  religious  im- 
pressions which  from  early  life  she  had  cherished, 
It  brought  the  thoughts  of  the  eternal  world  more 
near,  and  humbled  her  in  the  most  solemn  acts  of 
devotion.  In  the  pursuit  of  knowledge,  she  was 
also  persevering  and  successful. 

With  the  French  and  Italian  languages,  she  be 
came  familiar.  Painting,  music,  and  poetry  she  had 
practised  from  a  child.  Her  love  of  the  latter  pre- 
dominated, and  she  found  it  both  a  solace  in  grief, 
and  a  heightener  of  every  pleasure.  At  the  age  of 
twenty-two,  a  volume  of  her  poems  was  published, 
which  attracted  attention  and  praise. 

But  her  uncommon  accomplishments,  and  the  ad 
miration   they  received,   created  no   vanity.     She 
was  remarked  for  her  unaffected  manners,  sweet- 
ness of  disposition,  and  active  benevolence.     She 
12* 


138  the  girl's  reading-book. 

even  made  herself  acquainted  with  the  study  of 
medicine,  that  she  might  relieve  the  indigent  sick, 
who  were  unable  to  pay  a  physician,  and  they  view- 
ed her  as  a  guardian  angel. 

She  married  Mr.  Thomas  Rowe,  a  man  of  distin- 
guished talents  and  attainments,  who  warmly  recip- 
rocated the  attachment  of  her  refined  and  affec- 
tionate spirit.  But  only  five  years  of  conjugal  hap- 
piness was  allotted  them;  and  after  his  lamented 
death,  she  retired  to  a  solitary  estate  in  Frome, 
where  she  sought  to  comfort  her  widowhood  by  in- 
tellectual pursuits,  and  works  of  charity. 

She  meditated  so  much  on  the  happiness  of  de- 
parted friends,  and  made  herself  so  familiar  in 
thought  with  the  world' of  spirits,  that  she  was  in- 
duced to  compose  a  volume  of  "Letters  from  the 
Dead  to  the  Living."  These  were  followed  by 
"  Letters,  Moral  and  Entertaining,"  where  she 
endeavours  by  fictitious  examples,  to  expose  the 
deformity  of  vice,  and  allure  to  the  practice  of 
virtue. 

She  wrote  other  books,  among  which  were  the 
•*  History  of  Joseph,"  and  "  Devout  Exercises  of  the 
Heart."  So  great  was  her  fondness  for  study  and 
writing,  that  though  her  society  was  courted  by 
families  of  rank  and  opulence,  she  quitted  her  be- 
loved retirement  with  reluctance,  and  returned  to  it 
with  increased  delight. 

Still,  she  had  the  kindest  social  feelings,  and  her 
manners  were  a  model  of  unaffected  politeness. 
She  excelled  in  conversation,  as  well  as  with  her 
pen.    The  most  elegant  language  flowed  from  her 


the  girl's  reading-book.  139 

lips,  she  spoke  gracefully,  and  her  tone  of  voice 
was  singularly  sweet  and  harmonious. 

Though  she  was  agreeable,  and  even  beautiful  in 
her  person,  she  did  not  sacrifice  her  time  to  the 
decorations  of  dress.  She  was  always  neat  in  her 
apparel,  but  did  not  allow  the  toilet  to  interfere 
"with  nobler  pursuits.  For  empty  ceremony  and 
ostentatious  fashion,  she  had  neither  time  nor  taste. 

She  discountenanced  every  kind  of  luxury.  She 
preferred  to  have  her  table  simply  spread,  and  devote 
to  the  poor  the  money  which  would'  have  loaded  it 
with  dainties.  She  felt  that  the  pampering  of  the 
appetite  was  unworthy  of  beings  fitted  for  higher 
pleasures,  and  formed  for  immortality. 

She  was  affable  and  courteous  to  persons  in  hum- 
ble stations.  Her  domestics  she  treated  with  the 
utmost  kindness.  She  saw  that  they  had  every 
needful  attention  in  sickness,  and  often  sat  by  their 
bedside,  reading  them  books  of  useful  instruction 
and  pious  counsel. 

Her  heart  was  eminently  formed  for  friendship. 
She  rendered  every  service  in  her  power  to  those 
whom  she  loved.  By  a  warm  and  generous  sympa- 
thy, she  made  their  sorrows  her  own.  She  was 
■candid  and  tender,  in  pointing  out  their  faults,  and 
above  all,  strove  to  win  their  hearts  to  the  love  of 
that  true,  piety  which  had  rendered  her  life  so 
happy. 

Her  charities  were  extensive.  The  greatest  part 
of  her  income  was  devoted  to  them.  She  took 
pleasure  in  denying  herself  superfluities,  that  she 
might  have  more  to  bestow  on  those  who  were  des- 


140  the  girl's  reading-book. 

titute  of  comforts.  She  worked  with  her  own  hands 
to  relieve  their  necessities.  Tears  flowed  down  her 
cheeks  at  a  tale  of  distress,  and  not  content  with 
sending  bounty,  she  visited  in  person,  the  hovels  of 
poverty  and  contagion. 

She  gave  books  to  the  ignorant.  She  educated 
poor  children,  supplied  them  with  clothing,  and  in- 
structed them  herself  in  the  principles  of  the  christ- 
ian religion.  Such  was  her  reputation  for  benevo- 
lence, that  the  indigent  from  neighbouring  villages 
resorted  to  her,  and  shared  in  her  alms  and  her  sym- 
pathies. 

One  of  her  great  excellencies,  was  a  most  sweet 
and  amiable  disposition.  She  was  unruffled  by  the 
common  crossing  incidents  of  life,  those  petty  ob- 
structions, which  throw  the  temper  off  its  guard 
more  than  real  afflictions.  Neither  infirmities,  or 
advancing  age,  disturbed  this  serenity. 

Servants,  who  had  lived  with  her  for  nearly 
twenty  years,  never  saw  her  out  of  temper.  Indeed, 
it  has  been  said,  that  she  was  not  known  through- 
out her  whole  life, to  utter  an  unkind  or  an  ill-natur- 
ed expression.  To  scandal  and  calumny  she  had  a 
most  rooted  aversion,  and  defended  the  reputation 
of  others,  as  far  as  was  in  her  power. 

Her  talent  for  conversation,  she  made  use  of  as  a 
means,  not  merely  of  imparting  pleasure,  but  of 
doing  good.  When  she  wished  to  excite  a  person 
to  the  practice  of  any  particular  virtue,  she  some- 
times delicately  praised  those  who  had  been  emi~ 
nent  for  it,  hoping  they  might  thus,  by  the  beauty 
of  example,  be  quickened  to  imitation. 


THE  GIRL'S  READING-EOOK.  141 

All  her  deportment  was  marked  by  true  humility  - 
And  though  her  excellence  could  not  shield  her 
from  enmity,  and  from  the  slanders  of  that  envy 
which  follows  eminent  goodness,  and  "like  the 
shadow  proves  the  substance  true,"  she  avoided  re- 
sentment, and  considered  herself  thus  called  upon 
to  exercise  the  christian  virtue  of  forgiveness. 

She  was  strict  in  the  observances  of  religion. 
She  adopted  the  rule  of  the  Psalmist,  "  evening  and 
morning  and  noon,  will  I  pray;"  and  retired  three 
times  a  day  for  stated  private  devotion.  In  the 
duties  of  the  Sabbath  she  was  exemplary,  caused 
the  Scriptures  to  be  daily  read  in  her  family,  and 
attended  the  sacrament  of  the  Lord's  supper,  with 
great  veneration  and  love. 

A  life  so  blameless,  a  trust  so  firm  in  God,  a  mind 
so  conversant  with  a  future  and  better  world,  seem- 
ed to  have  divested  death  of  terror.  He  came  as  a 
messenger  to  conduct  her  to  that  state  of  purity  and 
bliss,  for  which  she  had  been  so  long  preparing. 

A  short  time  before  the  event,  though  in  perfect 
health,  slie  mentioned  to  a  religious  friend  a  convic- 
tion that  she  should  soon  depart,  wrote  several 
solemn  and  affectionate  letters,  not  to  be  communi- 
cated till  after  her  decease,  and  a  paper,  giving  direc- 
tions for  a  plain  and  private  funeral,  and  a  grave 
without  monument  or  inscription. 

On  the  day  of  her  death,  she  was  in  perfect  health, 
spent  the  evening  cheerfully  with  a  friend,  and  re- 
tired at  the  usual  hour  to  her  chamber.  There,  she 
was  soon  after  found  by  her  servant,  prostrate  on 
the  floor,  and  at  the  last  gasp. 


142  the  girl's  reading-book. 

She  died  on  Sunday,  February  28th,  1737.  A  re- 
ligious book  was  found  open  by  her,  and  a  paper  on 
which  she  had  written  a  few  devout  thoughts.  It 
was  her  stated  hour  for  prayer.  Probably,  her  soul 
while  in  sublimated  communion  with  her  God,  pass- 
ed to  "his  presence,  where  is  fulness  of  joy;  to  his 
right  hand,  where  are  pleasures  forevermore." 


the  girl's  reading-book.  143 


MRS.  JERUSHA  LATHROP. 

Mrs.  Jerusha  Lathrop  was  born  at  Hartford, 
Conn.,  May  10th,  1717.  She  was  the  daughter  of 
Governor  Talcott,  and  enjoyed  the  benefit  of  the 
example  of  pious  parents.  She  early  displayed  an 
amiable  disposition,  a  mind  of  quick  and  strong 
powers,  and  an  affectionate  heart. 

In  those  days,  the  advantages  of  school-education 
could  not  be  obtained,  as  they  now  are,  by  all.  The 
colony  had  been  settled  but  little  more  than  eighty 
years.  The  hardships  of  those,  who  had  found  it  a 
wilderness,  were  freshly  remembered.  Simplicity 
of  living,  and  industrious  habits,  still  prevailed 
among  the  most  wealthy  families. 

The  subject  of  this  sketch  used  often  to  remark, 
that  she  was  never  in  a  school-house  in  her  life. 
Still  she  received  a  good  education.  The  family  of 
her  parents  was  a  school  for  her,  and  their  precept 
and  example  were  her  teachers.  There  she  learned 
what  fitted  her  for  this  life  and  the  next. 

Obedience  and  diligence  were  the  first  letters  in 
her  alphabet.  Lessons  of  piety  began  at  her  cradle, 
and  domestic  industry  with  her  early  childhood. 
She  soon  acquired  the  use  of  the  needle  and  knit- 
ting-needles in  all  their  varieties.  The  foundation  of 
good  housekeeping,  in  which  she  excelled  through- 
out her  life,  was  laid  by  her  mother,  who  permitted 
her  to  be  an  assistant  in  her  own  employments, 
while  she  was  yet  a  child. 

Her  intellectual  culture  was  not  neglected.    She 


144  the  girl's  reading-book. 

had  a  great  fondness  for  reading  and  writing.  Her 
acquaintance  with  the  standard  authors  of  the  Eng- 
lish language  was  thorough,  and  in  poetry  she  took 
high  and  deep  delight.  There  were  then  but  few 
books.  Yet  from  this  scarcity  she  derived  the  bene- 
fit of  reading  with  such  careful  attention,  as  to  im- 
press their  contents  deeply  on  her  memory,  and 
carry  what  she  learned  in  youth,  to  the  close  of  a 
long  life. 

She  possessed  herself  of  the  accomplishments 
which  entered  into  the  education  of  the  daughters 
of  the  wealthy.  They  were  required  by  her  station. 
Instrumental  music  was  not  then  numbered  among 
them.  But  she  became  an  adept  in  vocal  music,  and 
had  the  gift  of  a  voice  of  great  compass  and  melody. 
Embroidery  was  much  prized,  and  she  excelled  in 
it.  Chairs,  curtains,  toilets,  and  other  useful  and 
ornamental  articles,  attested  her  skill  and  perseve- 
ring industry.  To  her  many  other  attainments,  she 
added  gentle,  graceful,  and  dignified  manners,  that 
accomplishment  which  is  admired  by  all,  and  which 
never  goes  out  of  fashion.  She  was  taught  the  pre- 
cept, that  the  richest  dress  might  become  antiqua- 
ted, and  the  most  beautiful  face  grow  old,  but  good 
manners  were  a  garb  fitting  for  every  occasion,  and 
a  language  understood  in  all  lands. 

At  the  age  of  eighteen,  she  was  married  to  Dr. 
Daniel  Lathrop,  of  Norwich,  Conn.  He  was  a  man 
of  excellent  talents  and  principles,  and  to  the  best 
education  which  this  country  afforded,  had  added 
the  advantage  of  several  years  residence  in  Europe. 
His  mind  was  enlarged  by  literary  and  scientific  re- 


the  girl's  reading-book.  145 

search,  and  it  was  his  pleasure  to  employ  his  fortune 
in  encouraging  industrious  enterprise,  and  drawing 
merit  from  obscurity. 

The  young  wife- entered  upon  her  new  duties 
with  affectionate  energy,  and  trust  in  Divine  aid. 
She  made  home  a  delightful  spot  to  her  husband, 
and  reciprocated  his  affection  and  confidence.  She 
cheered  by  respect  and  attention  the  last  days  of 
his  aged  father.  She  looked  well  to  the  ways  of 
her  household,  guided  her  servants  with  discretion, 
and  convinced  them  that  she  felt  a  sincere  interest 
in  their  welfare  and  improvement. 

Moving  in  an  elevated  sphere,  considered  the  or 
nament  and  pride  of  the  society  in  which  she  ming- 
led, and  surrounded  by  all  the  elements  of  conjugal 
felicity,  the  piety  which  early  struck  deep  root  in 
her  soul,  gave  her  wisdom  beyond  her  years,  and 
preserved  her  from  the  pride  of  prosperity.  In  the 
important  responsibilities  of  a  mother  she  was  faith- 
ful and  exemplary. 

She  was  blessed  with  three  sons,  beautiful  in  per- 
son, and  in  mind.  The  eldest  displayed  great  ma- 
turity of  intellect  and  character.  He  delighted  to 
sit  as  a  solitary  student,  and  store  his  memory  with 
sacred  and  sublime  passages  from  the  best  authors. 
The  religious  instructions  of  his  mother  were  his 
delight,  and  often,  at  his  hour  of  retiring,  he  would 
ask  with  an  interesting  solemnity,  "Do  you  think  I 
have  done  any  thing  to-day  to  offend  my  Father  in 
Heaven  ?" 

The  second  had  a  form  of  grace,  and  a  complex- 
ion of  feminine  delicacy.    The  tones  of  hi&   roice 
13 


146  the  girl's  reading-book. 

promised  to  attain  the  melting  richness  of  his  mo- 
ther's,  as  a  bud  opens  into  the  perfect  flower.  The 
youngest,  when  he  completed  his  third  year,  was 
the  picture  of  health,  vigour,  and  joy.  Golden  curls 
clustered  around  his  broad,  lofty  forehead,  and  his 
beautiful  features  were  radiant  with  the  glow  of 
intelligence,  or  the  gladness  of  mirth. 

The  eldest,  the  little  student  as  he  was  called, 
had  attained  the  age  of  seven  years.  Suddenly  he 
was  smitten,  while  at  his  books,  with  a  fatal  disease. 
One  night  he  suffered;  the  next,  he  was  not  among 
the  living.  Ere  he  was  laid  in  the  tomb,  the  second 
drooped.  Tears  quivered  in  his  soft  blue  eyes,  like 
dew  in  the  bell  of  the  hyacinth.  Yet.  if  he  might 
lay  his  head  upon  his  mother's  bosom,  he  would 
endure  without  repining. 

The  dying  boy  pressed  his  mother  to  sing  the 
hymn  that  he  loved.  She  controlled  her  griet,  to 
cheer  him  once  more  with  its  trembling  harmony. 
It  was  then  that  he  breathed  away  his  soul,  whis- 
pering of  the  angels  and  their  celestial  melodies. 
The  youngest  was  next  taken.  So  strongly  did  he 
struggle  with  the  destroyer,  and  so  fearful  were 
his  agonies  and  convulsions,  that  those  who  best 
loved  him,  could  not  but  give  thanks  when  the 
beautiful  clay  was  at  peace. 

These  three  lovely  children  were  laid  in  one 
grave,  in  one  week.  The  bereaved  parents  ever 
continued  childless.  The  mother  was  in  her  twenty- 
sixth  year  when  this  affliction  came  upon  her.  She 
looked  to  him  who  had  ordained  it.  She  strove  to 
remember  that  her  dear  ones  were  his.    She  exerted 


the  girl's  reading-book.  147 

herself  to  sustain  and  cheer  her  sorrowing  husband, 
and  laid  open  the  burden  of  her  griefs  only  to  the 
Father  of  her  spirit. 

She  seriously  examined  her  heart,  to  know  what 
evil  or  error  it  cherished,  to  render  such  severe  dis- 
cipline necessary.  This  solemn  inquiry  is  revealed 
in  a  poem, which  she  composed  during  the  earlier 
stages  of  her  mourning,  from  which  we  extract  the 
following  lines,  as  a  specimen  of  the  earnestness 
with  which  she  desired  to  be  made  better  by  the 
sorrow  that  had  pierced  her  heart. 

"  Oh,  teach  me  why  thou  dost  contend,  and  say 
Thy  comforts  blasted,  hasten  to  decay  ; 
Teach  me  the  paths  wherein  I  go  astray  ; 
Reveal  the  secret  errors  of  my  way  ; 
Reform,  correct,  subdue  the  offending  mind, 
Too  often  stubborn,  impotent,  or  blind." 

A  visible  blessing  descended  upon  her  prayers 
that  this  bereavement  might  be  sanctified  to  her 
improvement  in  piety.  Her  wounded  sensibilities 
subsided  into  that  resignation  which  brings  peace, 
and  into  an  untiring  benevolence.  Her  sympathies 
were  quickened  for  all  who  mourned,  and  she  re- 
lieved the  children  of  sorrow  and  poverty  with  the 
benignity  of  an  angel. 

It  was  late  in  life, when  the  affliction  of  widow- 
hood came  upon  her.  She  was  appointed  to  watch 
over  her  husband, during  the  pains  of  a  protracted 
sickness,  and  to  mark  with  still  keener  anguish  the 
mental  decay  of  him,  who  had  been  her  dearest 
friend  and  counsellor.  "  I  have  seen  an  end  of  all 
perfection/'  said  she,  when  his  strong  and  brilliant 


148  the  girl's  reading- book. 

mind  yielded  to  the  pressure  of  sickness,  and  when 
he  was  laid  in  the  grave  she  put  her  whole  trust  in 
the  widow's  God. 

From  that  hour,she  derived  her  chief  solace  from 
doing  good.  She  seemed  to  love  the  poor,as  if  they 
were  unfortunate  members  of  her  own  family. 
They  came  to  her  and  received  food  and  clothing, 
kind  words,  and  religious  counsel.  Her  care  for 
those  in  distress  knew  no  pause  while  life  lasted. 
Indeed,  it  extended  beyond  it,  as  she  left  in  her  will 
a  considerable  sum, for  the  payment  of  the  taxes  of 
the  poor. 

A  few  miles  from  the  city  where  she  resided,  was 
the  remnant  of  a  once  powerful  tribe  of  Indians. 
They  had  been  invariably  friendly  to  our  ancestors. 
They  had  supplied  them  with  corn,  during  the 
famine  that  sometimes  oppressed  the  infant  colony, 
and  had  shed  their  blood  in  the  defence  of  their 
white  friends.  Now  they  had  become  poor  and 
despised.  Their  royal  family  was  extinct,  and  they 
were  as  strangers  in  the  land  of  their  fathers. 

For  them  her  sympathies  were  enlisted.  She 
proportioned  her  bounties  to  their  needs.  He.r 
friendly  words,  and  courteous  deportment,  were  a 
cordial  to  their  withered  hearts.  Particularly  at 
the  stated  festivals  of  Christmas,  and  thanksgiving, 
they  were  remembered.  And  when  they  thronged 
to  receive  the  bounty  which  she  had  provided  for 
them,  she  was  often  seen  to  regard  their  meek  and 
abject  countenances  with  a  tearful,  tender  glance, 
remembering  that  they  were  once  the  lords  of  the 

BOil. 


the  girl's  reading-book.  149 

The  poor  red  people  of  the  forest,  and  the  sable 
African,  she  regarded  with  pitying  kindness.  She 
strove  to  elevate  their  condition,  and  to  cheer  them 
with  hope,  and  to  impress  on  them  the  importance 
of  right  conduct,  assuring  them  that  their  souls  were 
precious  in  the  eye  of  a  Redeemer.  She  inform- 
ed herself  of  the  state  of  the  sick  poor,  and  sent 
them  portions  according  to  their  necessities.  Her 
benefactions  often  came  so  secretly,  that  the  relieved 
party  knew  not  from  whence  they  flowed,  for  she 
desired  not  the  praise  of  man. 

There  was  nothing  in  which  she  more  delighted 
than  to  do  good  to  children.  She  assisted  in  the 
education  of  those,  whose  parents  were  in  restricted 
circumstances,  and  distributed  useful  books  to  those 
who  were  unable  to  purchase  them.  She  formed 
an  acquaintance  with  the  teachers  of  schools,  and 
rewarded  such  of  their  pupils  as  distinguished  them- 
selves by  good  scholarship,  and  correct  deportment. 

She  loved  to  surround  herself  on  Saturday  after- 
noons, with  the  children  of  the  neighbourhood.  She 
interested  them  with  delineations  of  birds,  plants, 
and  animals,  which,  with  her  scissors  or  pencil,  she 
rapidly  and  skilfully  executed.  She  charmed  them 
with  the  melody  and  high  sentiment  of  her  ancient 
songs,  or  touched  their  hearts  with  the  devout  fry  mns 
with  which  her  memory  was  stored.  She  drew 
them  around  her  table,  and  dismissed  them  at  sun- 
set, with  some  simple  present,  made  happier  and 
better  by  the  sacred  instructions  which  she  mingled 
with  her  deeds  of  kindness. 

She  ever  maintained  the  excellent  custom  of 
13* 


150  the  girl's  reading-book. 

Dringing  up  some  poor  or  orphan  child  as  a  domes- 
tic. Many  of  these  repaid  her  in  their  future  lives, 
by  their  respectability  and  piety,  and  felt  that  it  was 
a  privilege  to  have  grown  up  under  the  shadow  of 
her  wisdom.  In  the  arrangement  of  her  household, 
she  united  prudence  with  a  liberal  hospitality.  She. 
economized  in  her  personal  expenditure,  that  she 
might  have  the  more  to  give  to  those  who  needed. 

She  prized  the  intercourse  of  friendship.  She 
received  friends  at  her  house  in  a  simple,  unosten- 
tatious manner,  and  delighted  them  with  her  intel- 
ligent and  instructive  conversation.  Especially  she 
showed  attention  and  respect  to  the  ministers  of 
religion,  and  required  all  under  her  care  to  treat 
them  with  reverence.  Fondness  for  reading,  filled 
the  little  vacancies  of  life,  and  the  strong  and  kind 
interest  she  took  in  those  around,  particularly  in  all 
the  young,  served  to  keep  her  mind  unimpaired, 
and  her  feelings  vivid. 

When  more  than  fourscore  years  of  age,  her  light 
step,  and  animated  aspect,  surprised  beholders.  A 
fine  forehead,  scarcely  furrowed,  a  clear,  expressive 
eye,  a  tall  and  graceful  person,  whose  symmetry 
age  had  respected,  and  the  most  affable  and  dignified 
manners,  rendered  her  an  object  of  interest  to  all 
•who  approached  her.  To  the  last,  her  voice  retained 
that  musical  ard  exquisite  tone,  which  seemed  an 
echo  of  the  so  ii's  harmony. 

Thus  she  rived,  venerated,  and  imparting  happi- 
ness. The  virtues  which  made  her  beloved,  con- 
tinued to  flourish,  and  put  forth  new,  fresh  blossoms, 
tntil  her  life's  end.     They  could  not  wither,  even 


THE    GIRL'S    READ1NG-E00K.  151 

amid  the  frosts  of  age,  for  their  root  was  an  ever- 
living  piety.  There  is  no  doubt  that  her  afflictions 
contributed  to  her  excellence.  For  when  they  fell 
upon  her,  with  what  seemed  a  crushing  weight,  she 
cast  away  the  selfishness  of  grief,  and  took  hold  of 
the  anchor  of  faith,  and  the  crown  of  charity. 

The  close  of  her  life  was  like  the  fading  of  a  se- 
rene sabbath  into  the  holy  quiet  of  its  evening.  As 
she  entered  her  eighty-ninth  year,  a  gentle  sickness 
was  the  herald  of  the  last  messenger.  On  the  morn- 
ing of  September  14th,  1805,  her  spirit  departed. 
So  peaceful  was  the  transition,  that  the  precise  mo- 
ment when  she  ceased  to  bj  eathe,  could  not  be  told 
by  those  who  watched  over  her  pillow  with  ardent 
and  grateful  love.  "  But  1 1  eard  a  voice  from  hea- 
ven, saying,  Write3  blessed  are  the  dead  that  die  in 
the  Lord." 


152  the  girl's  reading-book. 


MRS.   HANNAH   MOKE. 


Mrs.  Hannah  More  was  born  in  the  year  1745,  ai 
Stapleton,  in  the  county  of  Gloucester,  England. 
She  was  the  youngest  but  one,  of  five  sisters.  Her 
father  received  a  learned  education,  and  was  in- 
tended for  the  ministry.  But  a  reverse  of  fortune 
changed  his  destination,  and  he  became  the  teacher 
of  a  school,  which,  with  close  economy,  afforded 
him  a  support. 

Mrs.  More's  mother  was  the  daughter  of  a  farmer. 
She  had  received  onto  a  plain  education ;  but  her 
strong  mind,  good  sen  e,  and  sound  judgment,  and 
the  active  part  she  took  in  the  formation  of  her 
children's  early  habits,  contributed  essentially  to 
their  future  success  and  distinction. 

The  subject  of  this  memoir,  when  very  5roung, 
exhibited  great  quickness  of  perception,  and  thirst 
for  knowledge.  By  listening  to  the  lessons  given 
to  her  elder  sisters,  she  made  considerable  progress 
in  reading,  at  three  years  old,  and  learned  to  repeat 
the  Catechism  in  such  a  manner  as  to  call  forth 
the  wondering  admiration  of  the  minister  of  the 
parish. 

At  eighty  she  was  continually  asking  her  father 
about  ancient  history  and  the  classics.  As  his  library 
was  not  furnished  with  the  authors  which  he  had 
himself  studied,  he  used  to  gratify  her  by  opening 
the  stores  of  his  own  retentive  memory.  Seated  on 
his  knee,  the  little  girl  listened  with  eager  attention 
to  the  revolutions  of  Greece  and  Rome,  and  to  the 


the  girl's  reading-book.  153 

most  striking   events    that  diversify  the  page  of 
history. 

He  recited  to  her  the  speeches  of  heroes,  first  in 
their  original  languages,  to  gratify  her  ear  with  the 
sound.  Then  he  translated  them  into  English.  The 
parallel  characters  and  precepts  of  Plutarch,  were  a 
favourite  part  of  these  fireside  discourses.  Perhaps 
thus  was  unconsciously  laid,  the  foundation  for  that 
high  morality  which  pervaded  her  future  writings. 

He  began  also  to  instruct  her  in  Latin  and  mathe- 
matics. So  astonishing  was  her  progress,  that  he 
began  to  be  alarmed  lest  her  mind  should  be  turned 
entirely  from  the  duties  of  her  sex.  He  ceased  his 
instruction  in  these  sciences.  But  she  pursued  by 
herself  the  Latin  classics,  and  so  thoroughly  were 
the  rudiments,  imparted  by  her  father,  engraved 
upon  her  docile  mind,  that  she  used  ever  to  say, 
that  conversation  with  an  enlightened  parent,  or 
preceptor,  was  one  of  the  best  modes  of  education. 

At  a  still  earlier  age,  whenever  she  could  possess 
herself  of  a  scrap  of  paper,  it  was  her  delight  to 
cover  it  entirely  with  some  little  essay  or  poem. 
One  of  her  highest  anticipations  was,  that  she  might 
one  day  be  rich  enough  to  have  a  whole  quire  of 
paper.  So  striking  were  some  of  the  thoughts  and 
expressions  that  she  communicated  nightly  to  the 
sister  with  whom  she  slept,  that  she  would  some- 
times rise,  and  endeavour  to  procure  a  light,  and 
the  cover  of  some  old  letter,  on  which  to  write 
Hannah's  effusions,  lest  they  should  escape  from 
memory. 

The  eldest  of  her  sisters  was  sent  to  school  at 


154  the  girl's  reading-book. 

Bristol,  that  she  might  qualify  herself  ibr  a  teacher. 
At  the  close  of  every  week  she  returned  home,  and 
diligently  taught  her  sisters  what  she  had  herself 
gained.  This  was  the  foundation  of  the  education  w 
of  the  distinguished  Hannah  More;  the  knowledgeli 
gathered  from  the  lips  of  parents  and  sisters,  during 
the  usual  occupations  of  the  family. 

She  thus  acquired  the  French  language,  and  by 
improving  every  opportunity  of  conversing  in  it, 
when  she  met  with  natives  of  that  country,  of  culti- 
vated minds,  became  distinguished  for  its  free  and 
elegant  use.  In  every  study  which  she  attempted, 
her  diligence  and  perseverance  knew  no  interrup- 
tion. She  felt  the  full  importance  of  acquiring 
knowledge,  and  made  vigorous  efforts  to  that  end. 
Her  love  of  goodness,  was  equal  to  her  love  oi 
knowledge,  and  God  crowned  both  with  success. 

When  she  was  twelve  years  old,  her  three  elder 
sisters  commenced  a  boarding-school  at  Bristol,  and 
took  her  under  their  care.  The  eldest  was  then 
but  twenty  years  of  age,  yet,  with  such  ability  and 
discretion  was  the  establishment  conducted,  that  it 
immediately  gained  and  preserved  a  very  high  re- 
putation. 

The  young  teachers  laboured  to  instil  into  the 
minds  of  their  pupils,  the  same  exalted  sense  of  mo- 
rality, and  deep  religious  principle,  which  had  formed 
the  basis  of  their  own  domestic  education.  They 
never  ceased  to  acknowledge  the  value  of  the  in- 
struction of  their  pious  parents,  and  the  pains  they 
had  taken  to  impress  on  their  hearts  the  sanctity  of 
the  sabbath,  and  of  the  ordinances  of  religion. 


the  girl's  reading-book.  155 

Their  talented  sister  was  careful  to  obey  all  their 
rules.  She  testified  her  gratitude  for  the  heightened 
advantages  of  education  which  she  enjoyed  through 
their  exertions.  It  was  to  aid  them  in  furnishing 
their  schofars  with  some  interesting  and  moral  com- 
position to  commit  to  memory,  and  recite,  that  she 
wrote  the  pastoral  drama  of  the  i;  Search  after  Hap- 
piness." 

Thus  it  seems  that  her  sweet,  sisterly  feeling 
prompted  her,  when  scarcely  seventeen  years  old, 
to  take  the  first  step  in  that  career  of  authorship, 
where,  for  the  long  period  of  seventy  years,  she 
was  to  walk,  improving  and  enlightening  the  world. 
Before  she  arrived  at  the  age  of  thirty,  she  became- 
generally  known  as  a  writer  of  great  ability,  and 
the  praises  of  her  learning  and  geniifs,  reached  her 
from  the  lips  of  the  most  illustrious  in  the  realm. 

True  piety  preserved  her  from  the  vanity  which 
must  else  have  destroyed  her.  She  mingled  in  the 
circles  of  rank  and  fashion,  only  to  return  with  a 
wider  experience,  and  a  warmer  zeal,  to  the  labours 
of  love  that  she  had  marked  out  for  herself.  She 
tasted  of  the  world,  that  she  might  overcome  it. 
She  was  raised  above  its  temptations,  by  the  grace 
of  Him  whom  she  had  sought  in  her  youth,  whose 
eye  is  ever  upon  "  them  that  fear  him,  that  hope  in 
his  mercy."       s 

We  have  not  room,  here  to  mention  the  various 
character  of  her  numerous  and  excellent  Avorks. 
But  her  intellectual  labours  did  not  turn  her  atten- 
tion from  the  duties  of  religion  and  charity.  After 
the  retirement  of  her  sisters  from  the  school  for 


156  the  girl's  reading-book. 

young  ladies,  which  they  many  years  conducted, 
she  co-operated  with  them  in  establishing  and 
teaching  Sunday-schools  in  various  parishes. 

She  persevered  in  all  that  she  attempted,  notwith- 
standing feeble  health,  and  many  attacks  of  danger- 
ous disease.  Misconstruction  and  calumny  were 
sometimes  her  portion.  But  she  rose  above  them, 
and  kept  on  her  way  rejoicing.  The  friendship  01 
the  good  and  virtuous  was  her  shield,  in  all  the 
attacks  of  enmity. 

In  1802  she  erected  a  beautiful  thatched  cottage, 
in  an  elevated  and  picturesque  situation,  to  which 
she  gave  the  name  of  Barley  Wood.  There  she  re- 
tired with  her  sisters,  and  the  grounds  were  arranged 
and  ornamented  by  their  united  taste.  She  was 
herself  exceedingly  fond  of  cultivating  the  beauties 
of  nature ;  and  a  cabinet-table,  from  whence  issued 
many  a  sheet  for  the  edification  of  mankind,  was 
inlaid  with  small  diamond  shaped  pieces  of  wood, 
from  trees  which  her  own  hand  had  planted. 

In  this  hallowed  retreat,  her  three  elder  sisters 
paid  the  debt  of  nature,  according  to  the  order  of 
their  birth.  Each  had  attained  the  age  of  seventy- 
five  years.  In  the  autumn  of  1819,  the  youngest 
was  taken,  and  the  solitary  survivor  bore  these  be- 
reavements with  that  faith  which  looks  beyond  the 
world,  for  a  re-union  with  the  beloved.  The  affec- 
tion of  this  family  of  sisters,  had  been  ardent  and 
without  a  cloud.  The  supports  of  piety  were  neces- 
sary to  console  the  one  who  was  left,  to  finish  her 
journey  alone. 

In  1828  she  removed  to  Clifton.     Though  more 


the  girl's  reading-book.  157 

than  fourscore  years  old,  she  still  continued  to  meet 
the  claims  of  her  correspondents,  though  she  de- 
sisted from  the  composition  of  large  volumes.  She 
excelled  in  the  epistolary  style,  and  in  speaking  of 
it,  says,  "  What  I  wish  for  in  a  letter,  is  the  picture 
of  my  friend's  mind,  and  the  common  sense  of  his 
life.  I  want  to  know  what  he  is  saying  and  doing  ; 
to  have  hini  show  me  the  inside  of  his  heart  without 
disguise.  I  have  this  feeling  when  I  write  letters. 
If  I  seek  wisdom  and  lofty  sentiment,  I  can  find 
them  in  books." 

The  last  letter  which  she  wrote  was  in  her  eighty- 
eighth  year.  To  the  close  of  her  long  life  her  eye 
was  not  dim.  She  could  easily  read-  the  smallest 
print  without  spectacles.  Her  hearing  was  but 
slightly  impaired,  and  her  features  were  neither 
wrinkled  nor  uncomely.  No  impatient  expression 
was  heard  to  escape  her  lips,  even  in  moments  of 
the  deepest  suffering,  and  her  beneficence  and  char 
ritable  feelings  increased  to  the  last. 

As  she  approached  the  verge' of  life,  her  vigour 
of  mind  yielded  to  declining  health  ;  but  the  fer- 
vour of  her  religious  trust  gained  new  strength. 
Almost  every  thought  was  prayer.  In  the  energy 
of  her  expiring  petitions,  her  friends,  and  those 
who  ministered  around  her  bed,  were  earnestly 
commended  to  the  care  of  the  Almighty. 

She  was  continually  blessing  those  around  her,  as 
death  approached.  "May  we  meet  in  an  eternal,  a 
glorious  world."  A  friend  mentioned  her  good 
deeds, — her  labours  of  benevolence.  "  Talk  not  so 
vainly,"  she  replied.    "  I  utterly  cast  them  from  me. 


158  the  girl's  reading-book. 

I  fall  low  at  the  foot  of  the  cross."  So  full  of  hu- 
mility was  one,  who  had  been  the  instrument  of  so 
great  good  in  her  day  and  generation. 

The  night  before  her  death,  there  was  an  unusual 
brightness  in  her  countenance.  Striving  to  rise  a 
little  from  her  pillow,  she  stretched  out  her  arms,« 
and  uttered  the  name  of  her  favourite  sister,  the 
last  who  had  died,  and  exclaimed,  in  a  clear  voice, 
"joy  !"  as  if  she  indeed  welcomed  her.  Then  her 
pulse  grew  fainter,  and  she  lay  for  hours,  as  if  in 
the  gentle  breathing  of  infant  sleep,  broken  occa- 
sionally by  a  sigh  or  groan.  It  was  early  in  the  af- 
ternoon of  September  7th,  1833,  that  she  ceased  to 
.  breathe. 

In  reading  the  works  of  this  illustrious  lady,  we 
are  surprised  both  at  their  variety  of  subject  and 
compass  of  thought.  With  equal  ease,  she  marked 
out  the  map  of  virtue  for  a  princess,  or  held  the 
lamp  of  truth  to  the  miserable  colliers,  amid  the 
darkness  of  the  mines.  She  could  touch  the  tender- 
est  chords  of  the  heart  in  her  poem  on  "  Sensibility," 
or  set  forth  the  rudiments  of  a  peasant's  faith,  in  the 
ballad  of  "  Dan  and  Jane." 

She  could  descend  to  the  simplest  alphabet  of  mo- 
rality, in  her  tales  of  "the  Postilion,"  the  "  Poach- 
er," and  the  "  Orange-Girl;"  or  soar  to  the  highest 
regions  of  sublimity,  to  portray  the  lineaments  of 
St.  Paul,  that  "  very  chiefest  of  the  apostles."  A 
mind,  fitted  like  hers  to  range  through  the  regions 
of  fancy,  and  catch  the  richness  of  classic  imagery, 
must  be  eminent  in  self-control,  thus  to  humble  it- 


the  girl's  reading-book.  159 

self  to  the  potty  and  painful  details  of  human  wretch- 
edness and  vice. 

Though  the  writings  of  Mrs.  Hannah  More  display 
such  diversity,  both  in  plan  and  style,  they  always 
clearly  keep  in  view  the  improvement  and  benefit 
of  mankind.  She  never  makes  Vice  beautiful,  that 
it  may  captivate  the  unguarded  heart;  or  forms  as- 
sociations of  thought,  which  make  work  for  repent- 
ance. 

Some  of  her  best  works,  have  been  devoted  to  the 
good  of  her  own  sex.  They  have  discouraged  tri- 
fling pursuits  and  frivolous  pleasures,  and  warned 
them  of  the  power  which  they  might  exercise  to 
elevate  and  purify  society,  without  departing  from 
the  sphere  which  Heaven  had  enjoined. 

The  effect,  as  well  as  the  tendency  of  her  writings, 
has  been  salutary.  It  has  been  acknowledged  by 
politicians,  that  her  native  country  has  profited  by 
their  spirit  of  patriotism,  and  masculine  force  of  ar- 
gument, which  fearlessly  admonishing  the  highest 
ranks  of  their  obligations,  and  inciting  indigence  to 
its  duty,  laboured  to  rectify  public  opinion,  to  re- 
move prejudices  against  just  government,  and  to 
show,  that  the  safety  of  a  nation  is  in  the  early  and 
pious  nurture  of  all  its  children. 

The  diffusion  of  her  works  has  kept  pace  with 
their  value.  It  may  truly  be  said  of  them,  that 
"  their  speech  has  gone  forth  to  the  end  of  the 
world."  Besides  their  wide  circulation,  wherever 
her  native,  tongue  is  spoken,  some  of  them  have 
been  translated  into  the  languages  of  France,  of 
Germany,  of  Greece,  and  of  Ceylon. 


160  the  girl's  reading-book. 

In  our  country,  they  have  been  warmly  welcomed, 
and  highly  appreciated.  Companions  of  the  bible, 
they  have  travelled  with  the  family  of  the  emigrant 
to  our  remotest  frontiers.  Where  the  axe  of  the 
woodman  awakens  echoes  which  had  slept  from 
creation,  the  solitary  matron  is  cheered  in  her  toils 
by  "Practical  Piety;"  reads  aloud  by  her  evening 
fireside,  the  "  Shepherd  of  Salisbury  Plain ;"  or 
marks  her  little  ones  weeping  tender  tears,  at  the 
story  of  the  prophet  in  his  bulrush-cradle,  upon  the 
devouring  Nile. 

From  youth,  till  the  decline  of  a  long  life,  it  was 
her  business  and  her  prayer,  to  sow  the  seeds  of 
virtue  and  of  piety.     Different  nations  and  tongues 
bring  their  tribute  of  gratitude,  and  honour  her  me- 
mory.    A  blessing,  most  desirable  in  this  life,  most 
powerful  over  the  destinies  of  the  next,  was  granted 
her  :  the  influence  of  mind  over  mind.     This,  enter-  *,, 
ing  both  the  palace  and  the  cottage,  made  their  in- 
mates  wiser  and  better.     It  will  continue  to  exist, 
When  the  distinctions  of  rank  are  forgotten,  and    , 
their   proudest   monuments  have   mouldered    into  * 
dust. 


THE  GIRL'S  READING-BOOK.  161 


MRS.  MARTHA  LAURENS  RAMSAY. 

Martha  Laurens  Ramsay  was  born  at  Charleston, 
(South  Carolina,)  November  3,  1759.  Her  father,  Co- 
lonel Henry  Laurens,  was  conspicuous  as  a  man  of  ta- 
lents, and  a  statesman.  Their  ancestors  were  French 
prptestants,  or  Huguenots,  who  took  refuge  in  this 
country,  "  for  righteousness  sake,"  during  the  per- 
secutions in  the  reign  of  Louis  Fourteenth. 

Her  love  of  knowledge  was  very  early  developed. 
At  the  age  of  three  years,  she  could  read  any  Eng- 
lish book  without  difficulty.  She  soon  added  geo- 
graphy and  arithmetic,  a  grammatical  knowledge 
of  the  French  language,  composition,  and  mathe- 
matics. 

She  was  assiduous  in  abridging  and  transcribing 
the  authors  that  she  read,  and  by  her  diligence  in 
impressing  the  substance  of  their  remarks,  and 
sometimes  their  words,  laid  the  foundation  for  that 
wonderful  memory  by  which  she  was  distin- 
guished through  life.  Feminine  accomplishments, 
and  the  ornamental  parts  of  education,  she  was  suc- 
cessful in  acquiring.  Indeed,  whatever  study  was 
recommended  to  her,  she  pursued  with  such  docility 
and  fixed  attention,  as  enabled  her  to  excel. 

At  the  age  of  eleven,  her  excellent  mother  died, 
and  she,  with  her  only  sister,  was  placed  under  the 
care  of  a  tender  and  pious  aunt.  Her  father  went 
to  Europe,  to  superintend  the  education  of  his  sons, 
and  for  the  long  period  of  eleven  years,  she  had  no 
intercourse  with  him,  except  by  the  pen. 
14* 


102  the  girl's  reading-bcok. 

This  separation  from  a  beloved  father,  with  the 
afflicting  loss  of  her  mother,  had  the  effect  to  draw 
her  nearer  .to  her  heavenly  parent.  Her  religious 
impressions  became  distinctly  visible,  and  her  con- 
duct was  evidently  guided"  by  hopes  that  are  not  ot 
this  world. 

Among  her  devotional  papers,  one  was  found,  af- 
ter her  decease,  written  when  she  was  fourteen 
years  old,  where,  in  a  strain  of  fervent  and  eloquent 
piety,  which  would  do  honour  to  the  most  experi- 
enced Christian,  she  dedicates  herself  to  the  service 
of  the  Almighty.  It  was  the  language  of  a  heart, 
surrounded  by  the  gayeties  of  youth,  and  the  allure- 
ments of  wealth,  devoting  itself  to  him,  who  has 
promised,  that  those  "  who  seek  early,  shall  find." 

She  accompanied  her  uncle  and  aunt  to  England, 
and  there,  at  the  age  of  sixteen,  made  a  public  pro- 
fession of  her  Christian  faith.  In  this  act,  she  al- 
ways rejoiced,  as  giving  strength  to  the  confidence 
which,  from  still  earlier  years,  she  had  placed  in  her 
heavenly  protector.  She  now  sought  the  society  of 
the  wise  and  pious,  and  in  a  letter  to  a  friend,  says, 
"  my  highest  ambition  is,  to  have  my  will,  in  all 
things,  subject  to  the  Divine  will." 

The  war  between  England  and  her  native  coun- 
try soon  commenced,  and  her  father*  was  called 
home,  and  appointed  to  an  important  station  in  that 
arduous  struggle.  It  was  one  of  her  most  painful 
trials,  to  hear  him  censured  as  an  ambitious,  unprin- 
cipled man,  and  a  fomenter  of  discord  between 
Great  Britain  and  the  colonies.  But  armed  with 
the  meekness  which  cometh  from  above,  she  replied. 


the  girl's  reading-book.  163 

not  to  these  revilings,  but  poured  out  her  sorrows 
in  secret  prayer. 

While  her  father  filled  the  office  of  President  of 
Congress,  foreseeing  that  peril  must  long  oversha- 
dow the  land,  he  wrote  his  daughter  to  prepare  for 
a  reverse,  and  even,  if  it  were  necessary,  to  obtain 
a  subsistence  by  her  own  labour.  "  If  instead  of  af- 
fluence," said  he,  "  to  which  you  have  still  a  just 
claim,  servitude  should  be  your  portion,  meet  it  with 
an  honest  and  pious  heart,  like  one  who  has  been 
neither  affectedly,  nor  fashionably  religious." 

In  1778,  she  pas&ed  with  her  uncle,  aunt,  and  sis- 
ter, to  France.  Their  native  country  was  now  the 
seat  of  war.  To  obtain  remittances,  became  more 
and  more  difficult.  But  the  evils  of  poverty  in  a 
foreign  land,  to  those  who  had  been  always  accus- 
tomed to  the  indulgences  of  wealth,  were  borne 
without  repining,  and  mutual  affection  sweetened 
their  frugal  repast. 

The  health  of  her  uncle  became  so  feeble,  that  he 
resigned  all  hope  of  recovery.  Her  father,  sent  to 
England  on  business  for  his  country,  was  thrown  a 
prisoner  into  the  Tower,  on  a  charge  of  high  trea- 
son, and  in  danger  of  his  life.  Charleston  was  in 
the  hands  of  the  enemy  ;  Carolina  overrun  by  their 
armies;  and,  as  the  climax  of  her  sorrows,  news 
came,  that  her  beloved  brother,  John  Laurens,  had 
fallen  in  battle. 

Now,  the  value  of  that  religion,  which  she  had 
chosen  in  childhood,  was  fully  revca.'ed.  She  was 
enabled  to  endure,  without  murmuring,  and  even 
cheerfully.    In  her  journal,  she  writes,  "My  soul, 


164  the  girl's  reading-book. 

be  of  good  courage.  Wait  on  the  Lord.  He  shah 
strengthen  thee.  Thou  shalt  not  have  one  more 
trial  than  is  necessary.  The  cross  shall  never  be 
heavier  than  thou  canst  bear." 

Ere  long,  hope  began  to  dawn  upon  the  destinies 
of  her  native  land.  Her  father  was  released  from 
prison,  and  entrusted  with  public  negotiations  to  the 
court  of  France.  She  was  summoned  to  join  him 
in  Paris,  and  who  can  tell  the  rapture  with  which, 
for  the  first  time  for  almost  twelve  years,  she  re 
ceived  his  paternal  embrace. 

The  change  was  great,  from  the  privations  of  po 
verty,  the  toil  of  the  nurse's  chamber,  and  the  soli 
tude  of  a  remote  country  village,  to  the  head  of  the  ta- 
ble of  a  minister-plenipotentiary,  iii  the  gayest  metro- 
polis of  the  gayest  clime  of  Europe.  This,  to  many 
young  ladies,  would  have  been  dangerous.  But  the 
religion  which  had  supported  her  in  adversity,  was 
her  protection  in  prosperity. 

Amid  the  flatteries  that  surrounded  her,  the  bible 
was  her  daily  study.  In  her  journal,  she  thus  writes, 
when  about  to  join  a  splendid  and  fashionable  par- 
ty. "  Enable  me  so  to  demean  myself,  that  all  may 
take  knowledge  of  me,  that  I  have  been  with  Jesus. 
Let  the  law  of  kindness  dwell  upon  my  tongue,  and 
teach  me  to  discountenance  sin,  in  the  spirit  of  hu- 
mility." 

Her  father  having  been  long  prevented  by  the  ob- 
structions of  war.  from  making  her  his  usual  remit: 
tances,  now  gave  her  at  one  time',  the  sum  of  five 
hundred  guineas.  Long  compelled  to  observe  the 
most  rigid  economy  in  her  wardrobe,  did  she  not 


the  girl's  reading-book.  165 

now  indulge  n  the  purchase  of  those  expensive  ar 
ticies  which  -he  saw  continually  worn  by  people 
with  whom  &  t j  associated? 

She  applied  mly  a  small  part  to  her  own  use,  and 
that  for  articles  of  obvious  necessity.  With  the  re- 
mainder, she  bought  one  hundred.  French  testa- 
ments, and  distributed  to  the  poor,  established  a 
school  in  the  village  where  she  had  resided,  engaged 
a  master,  and  constituted  a  fund  for  the  permanent 
support  of  the  institution. 

The  uncle,  who  had  so  kindly  been  her  pro 
tector,  during  her  separation  from  the  paternal 
roof,  died  in  France,  of  the  disease  which  had  for 
years  marked  his  life  with  suffering.  Being  child 
less,  it  was  his  intention  to  leave  the  principal  part 
of  his  fortune  to  the  favourite  niece,  whose  cheer- 
ful services  in  his  sick  chamber,  during  their  re- 
stricted circumstances,  had  been  so  constant  and 
invaluable. 

She  was  apprised  of  this  design,  and  with  her 
usual  disinterestedness,  expressed  an  urgent  desire, 
that  her  sister  and  brothers  might  share  in  his  bounty. 
The  will  was  altered  to  gratify  her  wishes,  but  the 
uncle  also  indulged  himself,  by  leaving  her  a  bequest 
of  five  hundred  pounds  sterling,  expressly  stating  it 
to  be  "  an  acknowledgment  for  her  many  services 
to  him,  and  to  his  family,  and  for  her  good  and  gen- 
tle conduct  at  all  times." 

Her  gratitude,  on  her  return  to  her  native  coun- 
try, was  unbounded,  to  find  it,  after  her  ten  years 
exile,  in  peace,  freedom,  and  maintaining  a  rank 
among  the  nations  of  the  earth.    Not  long  after,  she 


166  THE    GIRL'S    REAIUNG-BOQK. 

became  the  wife  of  Dr.  David  Ramsay,  a  man  high- 
ly respected  for  his  eminence  in  science  and  lite- 
rature, and  capable  of  appreciating  the  worth  of  the 
companion  whom  he  had  chosen. 

Her  conduct  in  the  station  of  a  wife,  the  mis- 
tress of  a  household,  and  the  mother  of  children, 
shone  forth  as  an  example  to  all.  She  lightened 
the  burden  of  her  husband's  cares,  and  assisted 
him,  as  far  as  possible,  in  his  literary  and  pro- 
fessional labours.  In  times  of  general  sickness, 
she  sought  out,  in  various  books,  cases  of  pecu 
liar  importance,  and  related  to  him,  or  presented, 
in  one  view,  the  opinions  of  standard  medical  au- 
thors. 

In  the  first  sixteen  years  after  her  marriage,  she 
became  the  mother  of  eleven  children.  In  their 
care  and  education  she  was  indefatigable.  In  every 
season  of  sickness  and  pain,  she  was  their  most 
watchful,  tender  nurse.  She  sought  to  procure 
for  each  a  good  constitution,  and  a  well-regulated 
mind. 

She  taught  them  industry,  and  as  they  gained 
vigour,  inured  them  to  fatigue  and  occasional  hard- 
ship. She  required  them  to  restrain  their  tempers; 
to  subject  their  desires  to  the  control  of  reason  and 
religion  ;  to  practise  self-denial;  to  bear  disappoint- 
ment; to  resist  the  importunity  of  present  pleasure 
or  pain,  for  the  sake  of  what  wisdom  and  experi- 
ence pronounced  necessary  to  be  done,  or  to  be 
suffered. 

Their  duty  to  God,  she  impressed  on  them  while 
their  minds  were  tender.      That  they  might  read 


tiie  girl's  reading-book.  167 

the  Bible  with  pleasure,  she  connected  with  i1,  when 
they  were  quite  young;  a  set  of  prints;  and,  as  they 
advanced  in  understanding,  added  such  works  as 
unite  uninspired  to  sacred  history,  and  the  Old  to 
the  New  Testament. 

Thus,  to  the  minds  of  her  children,  the  Bible, 
though  written  at  widely  remote  periods,  was  pre- 
sented as  an  uniform,  harmonious  system  of  divine 
truth.  The  voice  of  a  revered  mother  was  continu- 
ally heard,  enjoining  upon  them  to  read  daily  a 
portion  from  its  blessed  pages,  with  prayer,  and  to 
view  it  as  the  rule  of  their  duty,  the  source  of  their 
eternal  hope. 

She  constantly  assisted  their  progress  in  useful 
knowledge,  and  took  the  whole  superintendence  of 
their  education.  For  the  use  of  her  first  children 
she  compiled  a  grammar  of  the  English  language, 
not  finding  those  of*Lowth  and  Ash,  which  were 
then  the  only  ones  she  could  obtain,  subject  to  the 
comprehension  of  unfolding  intellects. 

She  prepared  questions  for  them  in  ancient  and 
modern  history,  which  they  were  expected  to  an- 
swer from  their  general  knowledge,  and  in  their 
own  language.  From  her  accurate  acquaintance 
with  French,  she  excelled  in  it  as  a  teacher  j  and  for 
their  sakes  she  studied  the  Greek  and  Latin  classics, 
so  as  to  become  a  profitable  instructor  in  those  lan- 
guages. 

With  the  same  ardour  to  advance  the  education 
of  her  children,  she  studied  botany,  and  refreshed 
her  knowledge  of  natural  and  civil  history,  bi- 
ography, astronomy,  chronology,  philosophy,  an& 


168  THE  GIRL  S  READING-BOOK. 

an  extensive  course  of  voyages  and  travels.  She 
gave  her  instructions  with  regularity,  and  thus  con- 
ducted her  daughters  at  home  through  the  studies 
and  accomplishments  taught  at  boarding-schools, 
and  her  sons  through  a  course  of  training,  which 
fitted  them  to  enter  college. 

She  endeavoured  to  render  the  sabbath,  a  season 
both  profitable  and  pleasant  to  all  the  young  around 
her.  A  part  of  the  intervals  of  divine  worship  was 
spent  in  reading  religioUG  books  with  her  children 
and  servants,  and  in  examining  them  respecting  the 
sermons,  of  which  she  frequently  wrote  an  abridg- 
ment from  memory.  She  also  read  the  New  Testa- 
ment in  Greek  with  her  sons,  and  in  French  with 
her  daughters. 

She  was  exceedingly  strict  in  her  improvement 
of  time.  By  rising  early,  she  secured  the  best 
part  of  the  day  for  devotion}  for  the  necessary  du- 
ties of  a  housekeeper,  and  for  the  instruction  of 
her  children.  A  portion  of  each  .  day  was  devoted 
to  a  course  of  reading,  and  also  to  the  practice  of 
needlework,  in  which  useful -art  she  rendered  her 
daughters  expert,  and  insisted,  even  amidst  the 
heat  of  a  Carolina  summer,  on  their  systematic  in- 
dustry. 

The  amount  of  her  waiting  was  wonderful.  Be- 
sides her  diary,  she  had  an  extensive  correspond- 
ence. She  excelled  in  the  epistolary  style.  Some 
of  her  letters  to  her  eldest  son,  while  absent  at  col- 
lege, are  appended  to  her  memoir.  She  copied  for  - 
her  husband  the  whole  of  his  "  History  of  the  Ame 
riean  Revolution,"   "  Life  of  Washington/'   "  Re- 


the  girl's  reading-book.  169 

view  of  the  Progress  of  Medicine  in  the  Eighteenth 
Century,"  and  all  the  earlier  part  of  his  "  Universal 
History." 

She  wrote  rapidly,  and  also  a  very  legible  and 
beautiful  hand.  It  was  a  rule  with  her,  that  what- 
ever was  done,  should  be  done  well.  She  had  been 
in  the  habit  of  transcribing  original  papers  for  her 
father,  as  well  as  her  husband,  and  he  pronounced 
her  the  best  clerk  he  had  ever  employed,  though,  in 
his  extensive  public  business,  he  had  many  of  su- 
perior excellence. 

Her  memory  was  remarkably  retentive,  and  she 
strengthened  it  by  continual  exercise.  Though  she 
read  many  books,  their  substance  remained  with 
her.  Of  some,  she  was  able  to  repeat  nearly  the 
whole.  .  Her  acquaintance  with  the  Scriptures  was 
so  intimate,  that  she  could  readily  quote,  or  turn 
to  any  passage  bearing  upon  the  subject  of  con- 
versation. 

For  her  astonishing  amount  of  industrious  per- 
formance, and  her  uniform  excellence  in  every  rela- 
tive duty,  she  derived  strength  from  her  spirit  of 
piety.  She  lived  a  life  of  prayer.  In  every  impor- 
tant transaction,  in  the  midst  of  her  daily  cares,  she 
poured  her  anxieties  into  the  ear  of  her  heavenly 
Father,  solicited  his  direction,  and  brought  the  tri- 
bute of  her  grateful  praise. 

In  her  last  sickness,  she  earnestly  admonished 

all  around  her  to  seek  God  by  prayer,  and  to  make 

him  their  confidence.     She  asked  her  husband  and 

children,  about  four  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  of  June 

15 


170  the  girl's  heading-book. 

10th,  1811,  if  they  were  willing  to  give  her  up. 
Perceiving  that  they  hesitated,  she  assured  them 
that  the  reluctance  which  she  had  felt  to  part  with 
them  was  now  removed  by  the  mercy  of  God,  and 
expired. 


POETRY. 


the  girl's  reading-book.  173 

TEACHER'S     EXCUSE. 

WRITTEN    IN    SCHOOL. 

My  friend,  I  gave  a  glad  assent  * 

To  your  request  at  noon, 
But  now  I  find  I  cannot  leave 

My  little  ones  so  soon. 

I  early  came,  and  as  my  feet 

First  entered  at  the  door, 
"  Remember,"  to  myself  1  said5 

"  You  must  dismiss  at  four, 

IJut  slates,  and  books,  and  maps  appear, 

And  many  a  dear  one  cries, 
"  Oh,  tell  us  where  that  river  runs, 

And  where  those  mountains  rise  j 

And  where  that  blind  old  monarch  reign'd, 

And  who  was  king  before, 
And  stay  a  little  after  five,  » 

And  tell  us  something  more." 

And  then  my  silent*  darling  comes, 

And  who  unmoved  can  view, 
The  glance  of  that  imploring  eye, 

w  Oh,  teach  me  something  too." 

*  A  little  deaf  and  dumb  girl. 
15* 


174  the  girl's  reading-book. 

Yet  who  would  think,  amid  the  toil, 

(Tho'  scarce  a  toil  it  be,) 
That  through  the  door,  the  muses  coy 

Should  deign  to  look  at  me. 

Their  look  is  somewhat  cold  and  stern 

As  if  it  meant  to  say, 
"  We  did  not  know  you  kept  a  school. 

We  must  have  lost  our  way." 

Their  visit  was  but  short,  indeed, 
As  these  light  numbers  show; 

But,  oh  !  they  bade  me  write  with  speed 
"  My  friend,  I  cannot  go.' 


•TOE  girl's  reading-eook.  175 


THE  LADY  BUG  AND  THE  ANT 

The  lady-bug  sat  in  the  rose's  heart, 

And  smil'd  with  pride  and  scorn, 
As  she  saw  a  plain -drest  ant  go  by, 

"With  a  heavy  grain  of  corn  ; 

So  she  drew  the  curtains  of  damask  round, 

And  adjusted  her  silken  vest, 

Making  her  glass  of  a  drop  of  dew 

That  lay  in  the  rose's  breast. 

Then  she  laugh'd  so  loud  that  the  ant  looked  up 

And  seeing  her  haughty  face, 
Took  no  more  notice,  but  travell'd  on 

At  the  same  industrious  pace. 

But  a  sudden  blast  of  autumn  came, 

And  rudely  swept  the  ground, 
And  down  the  rose  with  the  lady-bug  fell, 

And  scatter'd  its  leaves  around. 

Then  the  houseless  lady  was  much  amaz'd, 

And  knew  not  where  to  go, 
For  hoarse  November's  early  blast 

Had  brought  both  rain  and  snow. 

Her  wings  were  chill,  and  her  feet  were  cold, 
And  she  wish'd  for  the  ant's  warm  cell, 

And  what  she  did  when  the  winter  came, 
I'm  sure  I  cannot  tell. 


J  76  the  girl's  reading-eook. 

But  the  careful  aut  was  in  her  nest, 
With  her  little  ones  by  her  side, 

She  taught  them  all  like  herself  to  toil, 
Nor  mind  the  sneer  of  pride. 

And  I  thought,  as  I  sat  at  the  close  of  day, 

Eating  ray  bread  and  milk, 
It  was  wiser  to  work  and  improve  my  time. 

Than  be  idle  and  dress  in  silk. 


the  girl's  reading-book.  177 


THE  ARK  AKD  DOVE. 


"  Tell  me  a  story,  -please,"  my  little  girl 
Lisp'd  from  her  cradle.     So  I  bent  me  down, 
And  told  her  how  it  rain'd,  and  rain'd,  and  rain'd, 
Till  all  the  flowers  were  cover'd,  and  the  trees 
Hid  their  tall  heads,  and  where  the  houses  stood, 
And  people  dwelt,  a  fearful  deluge  roll'd  ; 
Because  the  world  was  wicked,  and  refus'd 
To  heed  the  words  of  God. 

But  one  good  man, 
Who  long  had  warn'd  the  wicked  to  repent, 
Obey,  and  live,  taught  by  the  voice  of  heaven, 
Had  built  an  ark  ;  and  thither,  with  his  wife 
And  children,  turn'd  for  safety.     Two  and  two 
Of  birds  and  beasts,  and  creeping  things,  he  took, 
With  food  for  all ;  and  when  the  tempest  roar'd, 
And  the  great  fountains  of  the  sky  pour'd  out 
A  ceaseless  flood,  till  all  beside  were  drown'd, 
They  in  their  quiet  vessel  dwelt  secure.  ft 

And  so  the  mighty  waters  bare  them  up,       * 
And  o'er  the  bosom  of  the  deep  they  sail'd 
For  many  days.     But  then  a  gentle  dove 
'Scap'd  from  the  casement  of  the  ark,  and  spread 
Her  lonely  pinion  o'er  the  boundless  wave. 
All,  all  was  desolation.     Chirping  nest, 
Nor  face  of  man,  nor  living  thing  she  saw, 
For  all  the  people  of  the  earth  were  drown'd, 
Because  of  disobedience. 


178  the  girl's  reading-book. 

Nought  she  spied, 
Save  wide,  deep  waters,  and  dark,  frowning  skies, 
Nor  found  her  weary  root  a  place  of  rest. 
So,  with  a  leaf  of  olive  in  her  mouth, 
Sole  fruit  of  her  drear  voyage,  which,  perchance, 
Upon  some  wrecking  bijlow  floated  by, 
With  drooping  wing  the  peaceful  ark  she  sought. 
The  righteous  man  that  wandering  dove  receiv'd, 
And  to  her  mate  restor'd,  who,  with  sad  moan, 
Had  wondered  at  her  absence. 

Then  I  look'd 
Upon  the  child,  to  see  if  her  young  thought 
Wearied  with  following  mine.     But  her  blue  eye 
Was  a  glad  listener,  and  the  eager  breath 
Of  pleas'd  attention  curl'd  her  parted  lip. 
And  so  I  told  her  how  the  waters  dried, 
And  the  green  branches  wav'd,  and  the  sweet  buds 
Came  up  in  loveliness,  and  that  meek  dove 
Went  forth  to  build  her  nest,  and  thousand  birds 
Awoke  their  songs  of  praise,  while  the  tir'd  ark 
Upon  the  breezy  breast  of  Ararat 
Repos'd,  and  Noah,  with  glad  spirit,  rear'd 
An  altar  to  his  God. 

Since,  many  a  time, 
When  to  her  rest,  ere  evening's  earliest  star. 
That  little  one  is  laid,  with  earnest  tone, 
And  pure  cheek  press'd  to  mine,  she  fondly  asks 
"  The  ark  and  dove."  ! 

Mothers  can  tell  how  oft, 
In  the  heart's  eloquence,  the  prayer  goes  up 
From  a  seal'd  lip,  and  tenderly  hath  blent, 


10 

the  girl's  reading-book.  179 

With  the  warm  teaching  of  the  sacred  tale, 
A  voiceless  wish,  that  when  that  timid  soul, 
Now  in  the  rosy  mesh  of  infancy, 
Fast  bound,  shall  dare  the  billows  of  the  world, 
Like  that  exploring  dove,  and  find  no  rest, 
A  piere'd,  a  pitying,  a  redeeming  hand, 
May  gently  guide  it  to  the  ark  of  peace. 


I 


M 


180  the  girl's  reading-book 


TO  A  DYING  INFANT. 

Go  to  thy  rest,  my  child ! 

Go  to  thy  dreamless  bed, 
Gentle  and  undefil'd, 

With  blessings  on  thy  head. 

Fresh  roses  in  thy  hand, 
Buds  on  thy  pillow  laid, 

Haste  from  this  fearful  land 
Where  flowers  so  quickly  fade, 

Before  thy  heart  might  learn 
In  waywardness  to  stray, 

Before  thy  feet  could  turn, 

The  dark  and  downward  way  • 


Or  sorrow  wake  the  tear. 
Rise  to  thy  home  of  rest, 
In  yon  celestial  sphere. 

Because  thy  smile  was  fair, 
Thy  lip  and  eye  so  bright, 

Because  thy  cradle-care 
Was  such  a  fond  delight. 

Shall  love  with  weak  embrace 
Thine  upward  flight  detain? 

No!  seek  thy  blessed  place 
Amid  the  angel  train. 


the  .girl's  reading-book.  13] 


PROCRASTINATION. 

•*  Live  well  to-day,"  a  spirit  cries, 
"  To-day  be  good,  to-day  be  wise  j" 
Why  doth  the  loitering  idler  tell, 
Another  day  will  do  as  well? 

"Now  is  the  time,  the  accepted  time," 
Speaks  audibly  the  page  sublime ; 
Another  creed  is  heard  to  say, 
"  Wait  till  a  more  convenient  day." 

Inquir'st  thou  which  of  these  is  truth? 

Which  to  obey,  unwary  youth? 

Go,  ask  of  Nature  in  thy  walk, 

The  rose-bud,  dying  on  the  stalk, 

The  scythe-shorn  grass,  the  withering  tree, 

Are  emblems  of  thy  fate  and  thee. 

Ask  of  the  stream,  or  torrent  hoarse, 
To  linger  on  their  wonted  course, 
Ask  of  the  bird  its  flight  to  stay, 
Building  its  light  nest  on  the  spray 
And  listen  to  their  answering  tone, 
"  A  future  day  is  not  our  own." 

And  is  it  thine?  Oh,  spurn  the  cheat, 
Resist  the  smooth,  the  dire  deceit, 
Lest  while  thou  dream'st  of  long  delay, 
Thine  hour  of  action  pass  away, 
Thy  prospects  fade,  thy  joys  be  o'er, 
Thy  time  of  hope  return  no  more. 
16 


THE  GIRL'S  READING-BOOK. 

Ask  of  the  Roman,  pale  with  fear, 
While  judgment  thunder'd  in  his  ear, 
Who  to  a  warning  friend  could  say, 
"  I'll  hear  thee  on  a  future  day ;" 
Ask  him  if  time  confirm'd  his  claim, 
Or  that  good  season  ever  came? 

Go  !  ask  yon  dying  man  the  price 
Of  one  short  hour  of  thoughtless  vicej 
What  would  he  pay — what  treasure  give, 
For  one  brief  season  more  to  live, 
One  hour  to  spend  in  anxious  care, 
In  duty,  penitence,  and  prayer  1 

Ask  of  the  grave — how  hoarse  resounds 
A  voice  from  its  sepulchral  bounds, 
1  With  me  no  hope,  or  knowledge  shine, 
Nor  wisdom,  nor  device  are  mine." 

Delay  no  longer,  lest  thy  breath 
Should  quiver  in  the  sigh  of  death, 
But  inward  turn  thy  thoughtful  view, 
And  what  thy  duty  dictates,  do. 


the  girl's  reading-book.  183 


THE  SABBATH. 

How  dost  thou  keep  the  day 

Which  thy  Creator  blest  ? 
Beams  it  upon  thee  with  the  ray 

Of  sweet  and  holy  rest? 

Dost  thou  from  worldly  care 
And  worldly  thought  refrain  ? 

And  ask  for  wisdom  in  thy  prayer 
To  make  thy  duty  plain? 

Dost  thou  thy  faults  lament  ? 

Thy  countless  mercies  vilw? 
And  strengthen  every  good  intent? 

Each  pious  hope  renew  ? 

Dost  thou  their  presence  shun, 
Who  daily  waste  their  prime  ? 

Profaning  till  God's  day  is  done. 
Its  consecrated  time  ? 

Does  musing  thought  aspire 
To  heaven's  celestial  train, 

And  hold  communion  with  the  choir, 
Who  charm  the*|arry  plain? 

Then  shall  the  Sabbath  prove 

A  golden  chain  to  raise 
Thy  spirit  to  a  world  of  love, 

And  purity  and  praise. 


184  the  girl's  reading-book. 


MORNING    THOUGHTS. 

Giver  of  light !— who  point'st  the  glorious  sun 
His  destin'd  way,  and  callest  every  star 
Forth  by  its  name,  and  causest  day  and  night 
To  know  their  order,  and  to  speak  thy  praise, 
All  powerful  One,  to  whom  creation  sings 
Its  early  matin,  may  my  humble  prayer 
Blend  with  that  chorus,  while  the  rising  dawn 
Dispels  the  shadows  and  the  damps  of  night. 

Go  forth  my  soul,  on  high  devotion's  wing, 
And  bear  glad  praises  to  thy  Maker's  ear, 
Ere  day  awakes,  or  the  rejoicing  sun 
Looks  from  his  chamber  on  the  blushing  morn. 

Oh  Thou,  whose  throne  is  in  the  circling  heavens, 
Where  the  veil'd  seraphs  stand,  thou  wilt  not  scorn 
The  incense  of  the  heart,  though  feebly  pour'd, 
Or  sometimes  mix'd  with  tears,  for  thou  dost  know 
My  frame,  and  thou  rememberest  I  am  dust. 

But  yet  thine  hand  did  mould  this  mass  of  clay, 
And  thy  breath  quicken  it,  nor  should  I  blush 
To  lift  my  face  to  thee,  to  speak  thy  name, 
And  call  thee  Father,  had  not  sin  so  stain'd, 
Marr'd,  and  defac'd  thy  w^rk. 

Yet  hear  my  prayers, 
And  as  a  parent  guides  and  guards  a  child 
Oft  wandering,  yet  belov'd,  so  guide  thou  me 
This  day. 


the  girl's  reading-book.  185 

From  snares  of  youth,  from  hidden  ills, 
Fruitless  resolves,  and  fancies  roving  wild, 
From  vanity  and  pride,  and  dark  deceit, 
Or  whatsoever  else  might  wake  the  sting 
Of  conscience,  wound  another's  peace,  or  break 
Thy  holy  law,  save  me  this  day,  O  God. 

And  let  a  warning  voice  say  to  my  soul, 
The  pure  and  watchful  eye  of  the  high  Judge 
Is  on  thy  ways,  and  still  a  viewless  pen 
Moves,  never  weary,  to  record  thy  deeds, 
Thy  words,  thy  secret  motives,  on  a  page 
Not  perishable,  which  the  flame  that  burns 
The  scorch'd  and  shrivel'd  skies,  shall  so  reveal, 
That  every  eye  may  read. 

Father,  thou  know'st 
All  my  temptations,  my  adversities, 
My  weaknesses  and  errors ;  suit  thy  gifts 
Unto  my  needs,  and  not  to  my  deserts 
Imperfect. 

Yet  so  guide  me  here  on  earth 
That  when  I  leave  it,  I  may  see  thy  face, 
Where  evir  cannot  come.     So  shall  my  prayer 
Rise  ceaseless  to  thee,  and  my  soul  repose 
Upon  thine  arm  of  love,  through  every  scene 
Of  this  day's  good  or  ill,  or  life  or  death. 

And  let  my  grateful  strain,  Giver  of  Good, 
Rise  with  acceptance  from  this  house  of  clay, 
This  brittle  tenement,  soon  crush'd  and  broke  j 
16* 


186  the  girl's  reading-book. 

Yea,  bid  me  on  the  cold,  dark  flood  of  death, 
Be  joyful  in  thee, — bid  me  wake  the  harp 
Of  seraph  rapture,  hymning  to  the  praise 
Of  Him  who  was,  and  is,  and  is  to  come, 
When  time  shail  be  no  more,  and  death  shall  die 


18" 


BIRTH-DAY  REQUESTS. 

Oh  Thon,  whose  tireless,  ever-watchful  care. 
Presents  another  year  and  wakes  the  prayer, 
Guide  thou  my  steps, — direct  my  doubtful  course, 
Crush  vain  resolves,  and  error's  dangerous  force, 
Impart  the  meek  desire,  the  hope  sublime, 
And  thoughts  that  soar  above  the  scenes  of  time. 

Grant  thou,  the  zeal  that  seeks  another's  good, 

And  sets  the  seal  to  duty  understood, 

The  humble  mil  d,  the  sympathy  sincere, 

For  joy,  the  smile — for  misery,  the  tear, 

Balm  for  the  wounded — for  the  drooping,  aid, 

A  tranquil  trust,  when  ills  of  life  invade, 

The  conscience  clear  that  soothes  to  sweet  repose 

And  the  warm  thrill  that  pure  devotion  knows. 

Let  ardent  love  to  those  who  kindly  strew 
My  path  with  flowers,  be  every  morning  new, 
And  lead  me  onward  thro'  each  fair  degree, 
Of  gratitude  to  them  and  trust  in  Thee. 

What  shall  I  ask,  or  what  refrain  to  say  ? 
Where  shall  I  point,  or  how  conclude  my  lay  ? 
So  much  my  weakness  needs — so  oft  thy  voice, 
Assures  that  weakness,  and  confirms  my  choice. 

Oh,  grant  me  active  days  of  peace  and  truth, 
Strength  to  my  heart,  and  wisdom  to  my  youth, 


188  the  girl's  reading-book. 

A  sphere  of  usefulness — a  soul  to  fill 

That  sphere  with  duty,  and  perform  thy  will. 

But  when,  at  last,  the  heavy  shades  shall  fall 
Of  that  dark  night  that  comes  but  once  to  all, 
Whether  in  youth,  maturity,  or  age, 
Let  thy  kind  voice  my  rising  pains  assuage, 
My  hopes  sustain,  my  gathering  fears  remove, 
And  fill  my  spirit  with  thy  pardoning  love. 

Then  strong'  in  faith,  I'd  dare  the  threatening  tides 
Which  this  dark  world  from  that  of  bliss  divides, 
Raise  the  dim  eye  to  drink  the  smile  of  heaven, 
Nerve  the  faint  heart  that  feels  its  sins  forgiven, 
Meet  with  calm  brow  the  billows'  deafening  roar, 
And  land  rejoicing  on  the  eternal  shore. 


the  girl's  reading-book.  189 


EXHIBITION  OFASCHOOL  OF  YOUNG  LADIES. 

How  fair  upon  the  admiring  sight, 

In  Learning's  sacred  fane, 
With  cheek  of  bloom,  and  robe  of  white, 

Glide  on  you  graceful  train ! 

Blest  creatures !  to  whose  gentle  eye 

Earth's  gilded  gifts  are  new, 
Ye  know  not  that  distrustful  sigh 

Which  deems  its  vows  untrue. 

There  is  a  bubble  on  your  cup 

By  buoyant  fancy  nurst, 
How  high  its  sparkling  foam  leaps  up  t 

Ye  do  not  think  'twill  burst : 

And  be  it  far  from  me  to  fling 

On  budding  joys  a  blight, 
Or  darkly  spread  a  raven's  wing 

To  shade  a  path  so  bright. 

There  twines  a  wreath  around  your  brow 

Blent  with  the  sunny  braid; 
Love  lends  its  flowers  aradiant  glow — 

Ye  do  not  think  'twill  fade  : 

And  yet  'twere  safer  there  to  bind 

That  plant  of  changeless  dye. 
Whose  root  is  in  the  lowly  mind, 

Whose  blossom  in  the  sky. 


190 


But  who  o'er  Beauty's  form  can  hang, 

Nor  think  how  future  years 
May  bring  stern  Sorrow's  speechless  pang, 

Or  Disappointment's  tears. 

Unceasing  toil,  unpitied  care, 
Cold  treachery's  serpent-moan — 

Ills  that  the  tender  heart  must  bear 
Unanswering  and  alone. 

Yet  as  the  frail  and  fragrant  flower, 
Crush'd  by  the  sweeping  blast, 

Doth  even  in  death  an  essence  pour 
The  sweetest  and  the  last, 

So  woman's  deep,  enduring  *ove, 

Which  nothing  can  appal, 
Her  steadfast  faith  that  looks  above 

For  rest,  can  conquer  all. 


THE  GIRL'S  READING-BOOK.  191 


CHILD  AT  THE  MOTHER'S  GRAVE. 

My  mother's  grave !  'Tis  there  beneath  the  trees. 
I  love  to  go  alone,  and  sit,  and  think. 
Upon  that  grassy  mound.    My  cradle  hours 
Come  back  again  so  sweetly,  when  I  woke 
And  lifted  up  my  head,  to  kiss  the  cheek 
That  bowed  to  meet  me. 

And  I  seem  to  feel 
Once  more  the  hand  thatsmooth'd  my  clustering 

curls, 
And  led  me  to  the  garden,  pointing  out 
Each  fragrant  flower  and  bud,  or  drawing  back 
My  foot,  lest  I  should  careless  crush  the  worm 
That  crawl'd  beside  one. 

And  that  gentle  tone, 
Teaching  to  pat  the  house-dog,  and  be  kind 
To  the  poor  cat,  and  spare  the  little  flies 
Upon  the  window,  and  divide  my  bread 
With  those  that  hunger'd,  and  bow  meekly  down 
To  the  gray-headed  man,  and  look  with  love 
On  all  whom  God  had  made. 

And  then  her  hymn 
At  early  evening,  when  I  went  to  rest, 
And  folded  closely  to  her  bosom,  sat 
Joining  my  cheek  to  her's,  and  pouring  out 
My  broken  music,  with  her  tuneful  strain : — 


102  the  girl's  reading-book. 

Comes  it  not  back  again  that  holy  hymn. 
Even  now  upon  ray  ear? 

p  But  when  I  go 

/To  my  lone  bed,  and  find  no  mother  there, 
And  weeping  kneel  to  say  the  prayer  she  taught, 
Or  when  I  read  the  Bible  that  she  lov'd, 
Or  to  her  vacant  seat  at  church  draw  near, 
And  think  of  her,  a  voice  is  in  my  heart, 
Bidding  me  early  seek  my  God,  and  love 
.  My  blessed  Saviour.— 

Sure  that  voice  is  her's,— * 
I  know  it  is,  because  these  were  the  words 
She  us'd  to  speak  so  tenderly,  with  tears, 
At  the  still  twilight-hour,  or  when  we  walk'd 
Forth  in  the  Spring  amid  rejoicing  birds, 
Or  whispering  talk'd  beside  the  winter  fire. 

— Mother  !  I'll  keep  these  precepts  in  my  heart. 
And  do  thy  bidding. 

Then,  when  God  shall  sa- 
My  days  are  finish'd,  will  he  give  me  leave 
To  come  to  thee  ?    And  can  I  find  thy  home, 
And  see  thee  with  thy  glorious  garments  on, 
And  kneel  at  the  Redeemer's  feet,  and  beg 
That  where  the  mother  is  the  child  may  dwell? 


the  girl's  reading-book.  193 


ON  MEETING  PUPILS  AT  THE    COMMUNION 
TABLE. 

When  gathering  round  a  Saviour's  board, 
Fair  forms,  and  brows  belov'd,  I  see, 

Who  once  the  paths  of  peace  explor'd. 
And  trac'd  the  studious  page  with  me, 

Who  from  my  side  with  pain  would  part, 
My  entering  steps  with  gladness  greet, 

And  pour  complacent,  o'er  my  heart, 
Affection's  dew-drops,  pure  and  sweet, 

When  now,  from  each  remember'd  face 
Beam  tranquil  hope,  and  faith  benign, 

When  in  each  eye  Heaven's  smile  I  trace, 
The  tear  of  joy  suffuses  mine. 

Father !  I  bless  thy  ceaseless  care, 
Which  thus  its  holiest  gifts  hath  shed, 

Guide  thou  their  steps  through  every  snare, 
From  every  danger  shield  their  head. 

From  treacherous  error's  dire  control, 
From  pride,  from  change,  from  darkness,  free, 

Preserve  each  timorous,  trusting  soul, 
That  like  the  ark- dove  flies  to  thee. 

And  may  tne  wreath  that  cloudless  days 
Around  our  hearts  so  fondly  wove, 
17 


194  the  girl's  reading-book. 

•    ■  • 

Still  bind  us,  till  we  speak  thy  praise, 
As  sister  spirits,  one  in  love, — 

One,  where  no  lingering  ill  can  harm, 
One,  where  no  stroke  of  fate  can  sever, 

Where  nought  but  holiness  doth  charm, 
And  all  that  charms  shall  live  forever. 


THE  GIRL'S  READING-BOOK, 


DEATH  OP  A  SUNDAY  SCHOOL  SCHOLAR. 

"He  gathereththe  lambs  with  his  arm,  and  carrieth  them  in  his 
jvisom. "— Isaiah, 

Lakb  !  in  a  clime  of  verdure, 

Thy  favourite  lot  was  cast, 
No  serpent  'mid  thy  flow'ry  food, 

Upon  thy  fold  no  blast. — 

Thine  were  the  crystal  fountains, 

And  thine  a  cloudless  sky, 
4.mid  thy  sports  a  star  of  love, 

Thy  play-mate  brother's  eye. 

Approving  guides  caress'd  thee. 
Where'er  thy  footsteps  rov'd  ; 

The  ear  that  heard  thee  bless'd  thee, 
The  eye  that  saw  thee  lov'd. 

Yet  life  hath  snares  and  sorrows 
From  which  no  friend  can  save, 

And  evils  might  have  throng'd  thy  path, 
Which  thou  wert  weak  to  brave. 

There  is  a  Heavenly  Shepherd, 

And  ere  thy  infant  charms 
Had  caught  the  tinge  of  care  or  wo, 

He  call'd  thee  to  his  arms. 


1U6  the  girl's  reading-book. 

And  though  the  shadowy  valley, 
With  Death's  dark  frown  was  dirr>, 

Light  cheer'd  the  stormy  passage. 
And  thou  art  safe  with  Him. 


the  girl's  reading-book.  197 


SAILOR'S  HYMN. 

When  the  parting  bosom  bleeds, 
When  our  native  land  recedes, 
While  the  wild  and  treacherous  main 
Takes  us  to  her  breast  again, 
Father !  view  a  sailor's  wo, — 
Guide  us  wheresoe'er  we  go. — 

When  the  lonely  watch  we  keep, 
Silent,  on  the  mighty  deep ; 
While  the  boisterous  surges  hoarse, 
Bear  us  darkly  on  our  course  ; 
Eye,  that  never  slumbers !   shed 
Holy  influence  on  our  head. 

When  the  sabbath's  peaceful  ray 
O'er  the  ocean's  breast  doth  play, 
Though  no  throngs  assemble  there, 
No  sweet  church-bell  warns  to  prayer  5 
Spirit  !  let  thy  presence  be, 
Sabbath  to  the  unresting  sea. 

When  the  raging  billows  dark, 
Thundering  toss  our  threatened  bark  : 
Thou,  who  on  the  whelming"  wave 
Didst  the  meek  disciple  save — 
Thou  who  hear'st  us  when  we  pray, 
Jesus!  Saviour  !  be  our  stay. 
17* 


198  THE  GIRL'S  READmG-BOOE. 

When  in  foreign  lands  we  roam, 
Far  from  kindred  and  from  home, 
Stranger  eyes  our  conduct  viewing, 
Heathen  bands  our  steps  pursuing, 
Let  our  conversation  be 
Fitting  those  that  follow  thee. 

Should  pale  Death,  with  arrow  dread 
Make  the  ocean-caves  our  bed, 
Though  no  eye  of  love  might  see 
Where  that  shrouded  grave  shall  be— 
Thou  !  who  hear'st  the  surges  roll, 
Deign  to  save  the  Sailor's  soul. 


the  girl's  reading-book.  199 


A  FATHER,  AND  HIS  MOTHERLESS  CHILDREN. 

Come,  gather  closer  to  my  side 

My  little  smitten  flock, 
And  I  will  tell  of  him  who  brought 

Pure  water  from  the  rock, 

Who  boldly  led  God's  people  forth 
From  Egypt's  wrath  and  guile, 

And  once  a  cradled  babe  did  float 
A  J  helpless  on  the  Nile. 

You're  weary,  precious  ones,  your  eyes 
Are  wandering  far  and  wide, — 

Think  ye  of  her  who  knew  so  well 
Your  tender  thoughts  to  guide  ? 

Of  her  who  could  to  wisdom's  lore 
Your  fixed  attention  claim  ? 

Ah  !  never  from  your  hearts  erase 
That  blessed  mother's  name.. 

'Tis  time  to  sing  your  evening  hymn, 

My  youngest  infant  dove, 
Come  press  your  velvet  cheek  to  mine, 

And  learn  the  lay  of  love  ; 

My  sheltering  arms  shall  clasp  you  all, 

My  poor  deserted  throng, 
Cling  as  you  used  to  cling  to  her 

Who  sings  the  angel's  song. 


800  the  girl's  reading-book. 

Begin,  sweet  birds,  the  accustbm'd  strain, 
Oome,  warble  loud  and  clear  ; 

Alas  !  alas !  you're  weeping  all. 
You're  sobbing  in  my  ear  ; 

Good  night — go  say  the  prayer  she  taught 

Beside  your  little  bed  ; 
The  lips  that  used  to  bless  you  there, 

Are  silent  with  the  dead. 

A  father's  hand  your  course  may  guide 

Amid  the  thorns  of  life, 
His  care  protect  those  shrinking  plants 

That  dread  the  storms  of  strife ; 

But  who,  upon  your  infant  hearts 
Shall  like  that  mother  write  'I 

Who  touch  the  strings  that  rule  the  soul? 
Dear,  smitten  flock,  good  night  \ 


I 
the  girl's  reading-book.  201 

SCHOLAR'S  TRIBUTE  TO  AN  INSTRUCTOR. 

As  when  an  eye,  accustomed  to  survey 

The  changeful  aspect  of  an  April  day, 

Turns  back  regretful  to  the  purple  dawn, 

Or  morning's  rose-tint  on  the  dewy  lawn  j 

So  I,  from  life's  delusions,  vain  and  wild, 

Retrace  the  scenes  that  charm'd  me  when  a  child. 

Yet  most  I  love  those  softly  blending  shades, 
Where  youth  just  glimmers,  and  where  childhood 

fades : 
And  'mid  that  cherish'd  imagery  I  see, 
Revered  instructor,  many  a  trace  of  thee, 
Thy  footsteps  on  the  grass,  all  fresh  with  dew, 
Thy  gentle  hands  where  early  snow-drops  grew. 

Too  oft  had  critic  rigour  harshly  doom'd 

My  buds  of  promise,  withering  ere  they  bloom'd. 

Or  cold  neglect  appall'd  with  freezing  eye 

A  lonely  mind,  that  shrank,  it  knew  not  why; 

But  thou  didst  stoop  to  shield  that  timid  mind, 

Wise  as  a  teacher,  as  a  parent  kind, 

With  studious  care,  its  wayward  course  to  lead, 

And  nurse  the  music  of  the  whispering  reed. 

A  plant  of  feeble  stem,  thou  would'st  not  mock, 
Rude  as  the  flowers  that  clothe  the  Alpine  rock. 
Nor  blight  its  tendrils  with  a  causeless  pang, 
Nor  scorn  it,  though  from  lowly  bed  it  sprang; 


202  the  girl's  reading-book. 

But  walch'd  its  rooting  with  a  florist's  care,1 
Rais'd  its  wan  blossoms  to  a  genial  air, 
And  o'er  its  narrow  leaves,  and  bending  head, 
Pure  dews  of  knowledge  and  of  virtue  shed. 

Even  now  of  stature  frail,  and  low  degree, 
More  weak  and  worthless  than  it  ought  to  be, 
It  turns  to  him  its  shrinking  buds  that  blest, 
And  pours  fresh  fragrance  from  a  grateful  breast. 

Yet  more  than  what  I  speak,  to  thee  I  owe, 
And  richer  gifts  than  strains  so  weak  can  show ; 
Thy  warning  voice  allur'd  my  listening  youth 
To  seek  the  path  of  piety  and  truth, 
And  heaven's  first  hopes,  as  vernal  sunbeams  roll, 
Dawn'd  from  thy  prayers  upon  my  waiting  soul. 

Oh,  ever  free  from  pain,  and  doubt,  and  strife, 
Flow  on  the  current  of  thy  tranquil  life,   . 
Pure  as  the  streams  that  o'er  white  pebbles/glide, 
And  mix  reproachless  with  a  mightier  tide, 
Bright  as  the  star,  whose  trembling  lamp  on  high 
Precedes  the  morn,  and  gilds  the  evening  sky, 
Till  time's  brief  tide  the  eternal  sea  shall  stay, 
And  earth's  dim  lights  at  glory's  sun  decay. 


THE  GIRL'S  READING-BOOK. 


REMEMBER  ME. 


When  morning  from  the  damps  of  night 
Beams  o'er  the  eye  in  rosy  light, 
And  calls  thee  forth  with  smile   benign; 
Ah  think !  whose  heart  responds  to  thine. 
And  stiil  with  sympathy  divine, 

Remember  me. 

When  gentle  twilight,  pure  and  calm, 
Comes  leaning  on  Reflection's  arm  ; 
When  o'er  the  throng  of  cares  and  woes 
Her  veil  of  sober  tint  she  throws 
Wooing  the  spirit  to  repose. 

RememDe*-  in* 

When  the  first  star  witn.  cresset  ongm, 
Gleams  lonely  o  er  tne  arch  of  night, 
When  through  the  fleecy  clouds  that  dance, 
The  moon  sends  forth  her  timid  glance, 
Then  gazing  on  that  pure  expanse, 

Remember  me. 

When  mournful  sighs  the  hollow  wind,     . 
A.nd  pensive  thought  enwraps  the  mind, 
If  e'er  thy  heart  in  sorrow's  tone, 
To  musing  melancholy  prone, 
Should  sigh,  because  it  feels  alone, 

Remember  me.  ' 


204  the  girl's  reading-book. 

When  stealing  to  thy  secret  bower, 
Devotion  claims  her  holy  hour, 
When  bowing  o'er  that  sacred  page 
Whose  spirit  curbs  affliction's  rage, 
Controls  our  youth,  sustains  our  age, 

Remember  me. 

Oh !  yet  indulge  the  ardent  claim, 

While  friendship's  heart  the  wish  can  frame, 

For  brief  and  transient  is  my  lay, 

And  mingling  soon  with  kindred  clay, 

This  silent  lip  no  more  shall  say, 

Remember  me. 

And  when  in  deep  oblivion's  shade    | 
This  breathless,  mouldering  form  is  iaid, 
If  near  that  bed  thy  step  should  rove, 
With  one  snort  prayer,  by  feeling  wove. 
One  glance  of  faith  one  tear  of  love 

Remember  me. 


205 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  AN  AGED  PASTOR. 

I  do  remember  him.     His  saintly  voice, 
So  duly  lifted  in  the  house  of  God, 
Comes  with  the  far-off  wing  of  infant  years, 
Like  solemn  music. 

Often  have  we  hush'd 
The  shrillest  echo  of  our  holiday, 
Turning  our  mirth  to  reverence  as  he  past, 
And  eager  to  record  one  favouring  smile, 
Or  word  paternal. 

At  the  bed  of  death 
I  do  remember  him  ;  when  one  who  bore 
For  me  a  tender  love,  did  feel. that  pang 
Which  makes  the  features  rigid,  and  the  eye 
Like  a  fix'd  glassy  orb.     Her  head  was  white 
With  many  winters;  but  her  furrow'd  brow    > 
To  me  was  beautiful ;  for  she  had  cheer'd 
My  lonely  childhood,  with  a  changeless  stream 
Of  pure  benevolence. 

His  earnest  tone 
Girding  her  from  the  armoury  of  God, 
To  foil  the  terrors  of  that  shadowy  vale 
Through  which  she  walk'd,  doth  linger  round  me 

still; 
And  by  that  gush  of  bitter  tears,  when  grief 
First  came  into  my  bosom ;  by  that  thrill 
Of  agony,  which  from  the  open'd  grave 
Rose  wildly  forth — I  do  remember  him, 
The  comforter  and  friend. 
18 


206  the  girl's  reading-book. 

When  fancy's  smile, 
Gilding  youth's  scenes,  and  promising  to  bring 
The  curtain'd  morrow  fairer  than  to-day, 
Did  kindle  wilder  gayety  than  fits 
Beings  so  frail — how  oft  his  funeral  prayer 
Over  some  shrouded  sleeper,  made  a  pause 
In  folly's  song,  or  warn'd  her  roving  eye, 
That  all  man's  glory  was  the  flower  of  grass. 
Beneath  the  mower's  scythe. 

His  fourscore  years 
Sat  lightly  on  him ;  for  his  heart  was  glad, 
Even  to  the  latest  pulse,  with  that  fond  love, 
Home-nurtur'd,  and  reciprocal,  which  girds 
And  garners  up  in  sorrow  or  in  joy. 

I  was  not  with  the  weepers,  when  the  hearse 
Stood  all  expectant  at  his  pleasant  door, 
And  other  voices  from  his  pulpit  said, 
That  he   was  not;    but  yet  the  requiem-sigh 
Of  that  sad  organ,  in  its  sable  robe, 
Made  melancholy  music  for  my  dreams. 

— And  so,  farewell,  thou  who  didst  shed  the  dot* 
Baptismal  on  mine  infancy,  and  lead 
To  the  Redeemer's  sacred  board  a  guest, 
Timid  and  unassured,  yet  gathering  strength 
From  the  blest  promise  of  Jehovah's  aid 
Unto  the  early  seeker. 

When  once  more 
My  native  spot  unfolds  that  pictur'd  chart 
Unto  mine  eye,  which  in  my  heart  I  hold, 


the  girl's  reading-book.  207 

Rocks,  woods,  and  waters,  exquisitely  blent, 
Thy  cordial  welcome  I  no  more  can  hear, 
Father  and  guide ;  nor  can  I  hope  to  win 
Thy  glance  from  glory's  mansion,  whiie  i  ia7 
This  wild-flower  garland  on  thine  honour'd  tomb 


208 


GRATITUDE. 

Lines  tmtlec  on  planting  slips  of  Geranium  and  Constancy  at  the 
Grave  of  a  venerated  Friend. 

Little  plant,  of  slender  form, 
Fair  and  shrinking  from  the  storm, 
Lift  thou  here  thy  fragrant  head, 
Bloom  in  this  uncultur'd  bed. 

Thou,  of  firmer  spirit,  too, 
Stronger  texture,  deeper  hue, 
Dreading  not  the  blasts  that  sweep, 
Rise,  and  guard  its  infant  sleep. 

Fear  ye  not  the  awful  shade 
Where  the  bones  of  men  are  laid  ; 
Short  like'  yours  their  transient  date, 
Keen  has  been  the  scythe  of  fate. 


Forth,  as  plants  in  glory  drest, 
They  came,  upon  the  green  earth's  breast 
Sent  forth  their  roots  to  reach  the  stream, 
Their  blossoms  toward    the  rising  beam, 
They  drank  the  morning's  balmy  breath, 
And  sank  at  eve,  in  withering  death. 


Rest  here,  meek  plants,  for  few  intrude 
To  trouble  this  deep  solitude  j 
But  should  the  giddy  footstep   tread 
Upon  the  ashes  of  the  dead. 


the  girl's  reading-book.  20$ 

Still  let  the  hand  of  rashness  spare 
Thgse  tokens  of  affection's  care, 
Nor  pluck  the  tender  leaves  that  wave 
In  sweetness  o'er  this  sainted  grave. 

White  were  the  locks  that  thinly  shed 
Their  snows  around  her  honour'd  head, 
And  furrows  not  to  be  effac'd, 
Had  age  amid  her  features  trac'd, 
Before  my  earliest  strength  I  tried 
In  infant  gambols  by  her  side  ; 
But  yet  no  grace  or  beauty  rare 
Were  ever  to  my  eye  so  fair. 

Seven  times  the  sun,  with  swift  career, 
Has  mark'd  the  circle  of  the  year, 
Since  first  she  press'd  her  lowly  bier; 
And  seven  times,  sorrowing,  have  I  come 
Alone  and  wandering  through  the  gloom, 
To  pour  my  lays  upon  her  tomb : 
And  I  have  mourn'd,  to  see  her  bed 
With  brambles  and  with  thorns  o'erspread. 

Ah,  surely,  round  her  place  of  rest 
I  should  not  let  the  coarse  weed  twine, 

Who  so  the  couch  of  pain  hath  blest, 

The  path  of  penury  freely  drest, 
And  scatter'd  such  perfumes  on  mine: 

It  is  not  meet,  that  she  should  be 

Forgotten  or  unblest  by  me 
18* 


210  THE  GIRL'S  READING-BOOK. 

My  plants,  that  in  your  hallow'd  beds 

Like  strangers  raise  your  trembling  hea^s, 

Drink  the  pure  dew  that  evening  sheds, 

And  meet  the  morning's  earliest  ray, 

And  catch  the  sunbeams  when  they  play  j — 

And  if  your  cups  are  filFd  with  rain, 

Shed  back  those  drops  in  tears  again ; 

Or  if  the  gale  that  sweeps  the  heath, 

Too  roughly  o'er  your  leaves  should  breathe^ 

Then  sigh  for  her, — and  when  you  bloom, 

Scatter  your  fragrance  o'er  her  tomb. 

But  should  you,  smit  with  terror,  cast 

Your  unblown  blossoms  on  the  blast,- 

Or  faint  beneath  the  vertic  heat, 

Or  fail  when  wintry  tempests  beat, 

There  is  a  plant  of  changeless  bloom,  . 

And  it  shall  deck  this  honour'd  tomb, 

Not  blanch'd  with  frost,  or  drown'd  with  rain, 

Or  by  the  breath  of  winter  slain, — 

But  every  morn  its  buds  renew'd 

Are  by  the  tears  of  evening  dew'd, — 

This  is  the  plant  of  gratitude. 


THE    GIRL'S   READING-BOOK.  211 

TO  AN  ABSENT  CHILD. 

Where  art  thou,  bird  of  song, 

Brightest  one,  and  dearest  ? 
Other  groves  among, 

Other  nests  thou  cheerest. 

Sweet  thy  warbling  skill 

To  each  ear  that  neard  thee? 
But  'twas  sweetest  still 

To  the  heart  that  rear'd  thee. 

Lamb  ! — where  dost  thou  rest? 

On  stranger  bosoms  lying  ? 
Flowers  thy  path  that  drest, 

All  uncropped  are  dying; 

Streams  where  thou  didst  roam 

Murmur  on  without  thee, — 
Lov'st  thou  still  thy  home? 

Can  thy  mother  doubt  thee? 

Seek  thy  Saviour's  flock, 

To  his  blest  fold  going  ; 
Seek  that  smitten  rock 

Whence  our  peace  is  flowing  • 

Still  would  Love  rejoice, 

Whatsoe'er  betide  thee, 
If  that  Shepherd's  voice 

Evermore  might  guide  thee. 


212  the  girl's  reading-book. 

t  ♦ 

THE  SIXTH  BIRTH-DAY. 

I  think  this  morning  of  a  feeble  babe, 
To  whom  the  gift  of  life  did  seem  a  toil 
It  shrank  to  bear. — And  I  remember  well, 
The  care  that  nnrtur'd  her,  both  night  and  day 
When  it  would  seem  as  if  the  fainting  breath 
Must  leave  her  bosom,  and  her  fair  blue  eye 
Sank  'neath  its  lids,  like  some  crushed  violet. 

Six  winters  came,  and  now  that  self-same  babe 

Wins  with  her  needle  the  appointed  length 

Of  her  light  task,  and  learns  with  patient  zeal 

The  daily  lesson,  tracing  on  her  map 

All  climes  and  regions  of  the  peopled  earth. 

With  tiny  hand,  she  guides  the  writer's  quill. 

Graving  those  lines  through  which  the  soul  doth 


And  pours  in  timid  tones  her  hymn  at  eve. 

She,  from  the  pictur'd  page,  doth  scan  the  tribes 
That  revel  in  the  air,  or  cleave  the  flood, 
Or  roam  the  wild,  delighting  much  to  know 
Their  various  natures,  and  their  habits  all, 
From  the  huge  elephant,  to  the  small  fly 
That  liveth  but  a  day,  yet  in  that  day 
Is  happy,  and  outspreads  a  shining  wing, 
Exulting  in  the  mighty  Maker's  care. 

She  weeps  that  men  should  barb  the  monarch  whale 
In  his  wild  ocean-home,  and  wound  the  dove, 


213 


And  to  the  slaughter  lead  the  trusting  lamb, 
And  snare  the  pigeon  hasting  to  its  nest 
To  feed  its  young,  and  hunt  the  flying  deer, 
And  find  a  pleasure  in  the  pain  he  gives. 

She  tells  the  sweetly  modulated  tale 
To  her  young  brother,  and  devoutly  cheers 
At  early  morning,  seated  on  his  knee, 
Her  hoary  grandsire  from  the  Book  of  God, 
Who  meekly  happy  in  his  fourscore  years, 
Heeds  not  the  dimness  gathering  o'er  his  sight, 
But  with  a  saintly  kindness  bows  him  down 
To  drink  from  her  young  lip  the  lore  he  loves. 

Fond,  gentle  child,  who  like  a  flower  that  hastes 
To  burst  its  sheath,  hath  come  so  quickly  forth, 
A  sweet  companion,  walking  by  my  side. — 
In  tender  love,  lift  thy  young  heart  to  God  — 
That  whatsoe'er  doth  please  him  in  thy  life 
He  may  perfect,  and  by  his  Spirit's  power 
Remove  each  germ  of  evil,  that  thy  soul, 
When  this  brief  discipline  of  time  is  o'er, 
May  rise  to  praise  him  with  an  angel's  song. 


214  the  girl's  reading-book. 


THE  FIRESIDE. 

"Say,  what  have  you  brought  to  our  own  fireside?'* 

'Twas  the  mother's  voice  that  spake, — 
"  Hark  !  hear  the  wint'ry  tempest  chide, — 
But  peace  and  joy  shall  with  us  abide, — 
O  cherish  them  for  my  sake. 

"  A  common  stock  is  our  happiness  here, — 
Each  heart  must  contribute  its  mite, — 

The  bliss  to  swell,  or  the  pain  to  cheer, — 

Son,  and  daughter,  and  husband  dear, 
What  have  you  brought  to-night  ?" 

Then  the  studious  boy  from  the  storied  page 

Look'd  up  with  a  thoughtful  eye  ; 
That  knowledge  was  there  which  doth  ckarm  the  sage, 
And  shine  like  a  flame  thro'  the  frost  of  age, 

With  radiant  majesty. 

A  girl  was  there,  like  a  rose  on  its  stem, 

And  her  bird-like  song  she  pour'd ; 
Beauty  and  music  a  brilliant  gem 
Shook  from  their  sparkling  diadem, 

To  enrich  the  evening  hoard. 

By  a  pale,  sick  child,  was  a  treasure  brought,— 

The  smile  of  patient  trust, 
For  disease  had  a  precious  moral  wrought, 
And  quiet  and  pure  was  her  chasten'd  thought, 

As  a  pearl  by  the  rude  sea  nurs'd. 


the  girl's  reading-book.  211 

A  fair  babe  woke  on  its  cradle- bed, 

And  clung  to  the  mother's  breast, 
But  soon  to  the  knee  of  its  sire  it  sped, 
Love  was  its  gift,  and  the  angels  said 

That  the  baby's  gift  was  best. 

Then  the  father  spake,  with  a  grateful  air, 

Of  the  God  whom  his  youth  had  known, 
And  the  mother's  sigh  of  tender  care, 
Went  up  in  the  shape  of  a  winged  prayer, 
Asd  was  heard  before  the  Throne. 


216  .    the  girl's  heading-book 


AlilCE. 

Avery  interesting  young  lady,  deprived  of  the  gifts  of  hearing  a»d 
speech,  cherished  a  most  artlent  affection  for  her  father.  At  his  deatn, 
she-said  in  her  strong  language  of  gesture,  that  "her  heart  had  so 
grown  to  his,  that  it  could  not  be  separated." — In  a  few  days  she  was 
called  to  follow  him. — From  those  happy  mansions  where  we  trust  she 
is  received,  may  we  not  imagine  her  thus  addressing  the  objects  of  her 
earliest  affections  1 

Sisters  !  there's  music  here, 

From  countless  harps  it  flows, 
Throughout  this  bright  celestial  sphere 

Nor  pause  nor  discord  knows. 

The  seal  is  melted  from  my  ear 

By  love  divine, 
And  what  through  life  I  pined  to  hear, 

Is  mine  !    Is  mine  ! 
The  warbling  of  an  ever-tuneful  choir, 
And  the  full,  deep  response  of  David's  sacred  lyre 

Did  kind  earth  hide  from  me 
Her  broken  harmony, 
That  thus  the  melodies  of  Heaven  might  roll 
And  whelm  in  deeper  tides  of  bliss,  my  rapt,  my 
wondering  soul  ? 


Joy '. — I  am  mute  no  more, 
My  sad  and  silent  years, 

With  all  their  loneliness,  are  o'er; 
Sweet  sisters,  dry  your  tears. 


the  girl's  reading-book.  217 

Listen  at  hush  of  eve, — lisffen  at  dawn  of  day — 
List  at  the  hour  of  prayer,  can  ye  not  hear  my  lay  ? 
Untaught,  unchecked  it  came, 
As  light  from  chaos  beam'd, 
Praising  his  everlasting  name, 

Whose  blood  from  Calvary  stream'd, 
And  still  it  swells  that  highest  strain,  the  song  of 
the  redeem'd. 

Brother  ! — my  only  one. 

Belov'd  from  childhood's  hours. 
With  whom,  beneath  the  verna]  sun, 
I  wandered  when  our  task  was  done, 
And  gathered  early  flowers  ; 

I  cannot  come  to  thee. 
Though  'twas  so  sweet  to  rest 
Upon    thy  gently-guiding  arm — thy  sympathizing 
breast: 
'Tis  better  here  to  be. 

No  disappointments  shroud 

The  angel-bowers  of  joy, 
Our  knowledge  hath  no  cloud. 

Our  pleasures  no  alloy. 

The  fearful  word — to  part. 

Is  never  breathed  above  : 
Heaven  hath  no  broken  heart — 

Call  me  not  hence,  my  love. 

Oh  mother!     He  is  here 
To  whom  my  soul  so  grew, 
19 


218  the  girl's  reading-book. 

That  when  Death's  fatal  spear 
Stretch'd  him  upon  his  bier, 
I  fain  must  follow  too. 

His  smile  my  infant  grief  restrain'd — 

His  image  in  my  childish  dream 
And  o'er  my  young  affections  reign'd 
With  gratitude  unuttered,  and  supreme. 
But  yet  till  these   refulgent  skies  burst   forth  in 

radiant  glow, 
I  know  not  half  the  unmeasured  debt  a  daughter's 
heart  doth  owe. 

Ask  ye,  if  still  his  heart  retains  its  ardent  glow? 
Ask  ye,  if  filial  love 
Unbodied  spirits  prove  ? 
^Tis  but  a  little  space,  and  thou  shalt  rise  to  know. 

I  bend  to  soothe  thy  woes. 

How  near — thou  canst  not  see« 
I  watch  thy  lone  repose. 
Alice,  doth  comfort,  thee ; 
To  welcome  thee,  I  wait — blest  mother  !  come  to 
me. 


the  girl's  reading-eooe.  219 


liOUISA. 


She  was  my  idol.    Night  and  day,  to  scan 
The  fine  expansion  of  her  form,  and  mark 
The  unfolding  mind,  like  vernal  rose-bud.  start 
To  sudden  beauty,  was  my  chief  delight. 

To  find  her  fairy  footsteps  following  mine, 
Hor  hand  upon  my  garments,  or  her  lip 
Long  s'eal'd  to  mine,  and  in  the  watch  of  night 
The  quiet  breath  of  innocence  to  feel 
Soft  on  my  cheek,  was  such  a  full  content 
Of  happiness,  as  none  but  mothers  know. 

Her  voice  was  like  some  tiny  harp,  that  yields 
To  the  slight-finger'd  breeze,  and  as  it  held 
Gay  converse  with  her  doll,  or  gentry  sootn  d 
The  moaning  kitten,  or  with  patient  care 
Conn'd  o'er  the  alphabet — but  most  of  all, 
Its  tender  cadence  in  her  evening  prayer, 
Thrill'd  on  the  ear  like  some  ethereal  tone 
Heard  in  sweet  dreams. 

But  now  alone  I  sit, 
Musing  of  her,  and  dew  with  mournful  tears 
Her  little  robes,  that  once  with  curious  pride 
I  wrought,  as  though  there  were  a  need  to  deck 
A  form  that  God  had  made  so  beautiful. 
Sometimes  I  start,  fancying  her  empty  crib 
Gives  forth  a  restless  sound,  and  softly  say, 
"Hush,  hush,  Louisa,  dearest!" — then  I  ween. 


220  the  girl's  reading-book. 

As  if  it  were  a  sin  to  speak  to  one 
Whose  home  is  with  the  angels. 

Gone  to  God ! 
And  yet  I  wish  I  had  not  seen  the  pang 
That  wrung  her  features,  nor  the  ghastly  white 
Settling  around  her  lips.     I  would  that  Heaven 
Had  taken  its  own,  like  some  transplanted  flower 
Blooming  in  all  its  freshness. 

Gone  to  God ! 
Be  still,  my  heart!  what  could  a  mother's  prayer 
In  all  the  wildest  ecstasy  of  hope, 
Ask  for  its  darling,  iike  the  bliss  of  heaven? 


the  girl's  reading-book.  221 


THE  OLD  MAN. 

Why  gaze  ye  on  my  hoary  hair, 
Ye  children,  young  and  gay? 

Your  locks,  beneath  the  blast  of  care, 
Will  bleach  as  white  as  they. 

I  had  a  mother  once,  like  you, 

Who  o'er  my  pillow  hung. 
Kiss'd  from  my  cheek  the  briny  dew, 

And  taught  my  faltering  tongue. 

She,  when  the  nightly  couch  was  spread, 

Would  bow  my  infant  knee, 
And  lay  her  soft  hand  on  my  head, 

And  bending,  pray  for  me. 

But  then,  there  came  a  fearful  day, 

I  sought  my  mother's  bed; 
Harsh  voices  warn'd  me  thence  away, 

And  told  me  she  was  dead. 

I  pluck'd  a  fair  white  rose,  and  stole 

To  lay  it  by  her  side ; 
Yet,  ah,  strange  sleep  enchained  her  soul, 

For  no  fond  voice  replied, 

That  eve  I  knelt  me  down  in  wo, 

To  say  a  lonely  prayer; 
And  still  my  temples  seem'd  to  glow, 

As  if  that  hand  was  there. 
19* 


222  the  girl's  reading-booic 

Years  fled,  and  left  me  childhood's  joy 
Gay  sports,  and  pastimes  dear; 

I  rose  a  wild  and  wayward  boy, 
Who  scorned  the  curb  of  fear. 

Fierce  passions  shook  me  like  a  reed  j 

But  ere,  at  night,  I  slept, 
That  soft  hand  made  my  bosom  bleed, 

And  down  I  fell,  and  wept. 

Youth  came — the  props  of  virtue  reel'd; 

Yet  still,  at  day's  decline, 
A  marble  touch  my  brow  congeal'd — 

Blest  mother,  was  it  thine  ? 

In  foreign  lands  I  travell'd  wide. 
My  full  pulse  bounding  high: 

Vice  spread  her  meshes  at  my  side, 
And  pleasure  lured  my  eye. — 

Even  then,  that  hand,  so  soft  and  cold, 

Maintain'd  its  mystic  sway, 
As  when  amid  my  curls  of  gold 

With  gentle  force  it  lay ; 

And  with  it  sighed  a  voice  of  care. 

As  from  the  lowly  sod, 
"  My  son,  my  only  one,  beware ! 

Sin  not  against  thy  God." 

Ye  think,  perchance,  that  age  hath  stole 
My  kindly  warmth  away, 


THE  GIRL'S  READ1NG-E00K.  223 

And  dimm'd  the  tablet  of  the  soul ; 
Yet  when  with  lordly  sway, 

This  brow  the  plumed  helm  display'd 

That  awes  the  warrior  throng, 
Or  beauty's  thrilling  fingers  stray'd 

These  manly  .locks  among, 

Thathallow'd  touch  was  ne'er  forgot; 

And  now,  though  time  hath  set 
His  seal  of  frost  that  melteth  not 

My  temples  feel  it  yet. 

And  if  I  e'er  in  heaven  appear, 

A  mother's  holy  prayer — 
A  mother's  hand,  and  tender  tear. 
Still  pointing  to  a  Saviour  dear. 

Have  led  the  wanderer  mere. 


224  the  girl's  reading- bock, 


BURIAL  OF  THE  INDIAN  GIRL. 

"The  only  daughter  of  nn  Indian  woman,  in  Wisconsin  territory, 
died  of  lingering  consumption,  at  the  age  of  eighteen.     A  few  of  her 
own  race,  and  a  few  of  the  whites,  were  at  the  grave  3  but  none  wept, 
lave  the  poor  mother." 
*  Herald  of  the  Upper  Mississippi. 

A  wail  upon  the  prairies, — 

A  cry  of  woman's  wo, — 
That  mingleth  with  the  autumn  blast, 

All  fitfully  and  low. 
It  is  a  mother's  wailing! — 

Hath  earth  another  tone 
Like  that  with  which  a  motner  mourns, 

Her  lost,  her  only  one  ? — 

Pale  faces  gather  round  her, — 

They  mark  the  storm  swell  high, 
That  rends  and  wrecks  the  tossing  soul, 

But  their  cold,  blue  eyes  were  dry. 
Pale  faces  gazed  upon  her, 

As  the  wild  winds  caught  her  moan, — 
But  she  was  an  Indian  mother, — 

So,  she  wept  those  tears  alone. 

Long,  o'er  that  wasting  idol, 

She  watch'd  and  toil'd  and  pray'd, 
Though  every  dreary  dawn  revea.'d 

Some  ravage  Death  had  made: 
Till  the  fleshless  sinews  started,  • 

And  hope  no  opiate  gave, 


the  girl's  reading-book.  225 

And  hoarse  and  hollow  grew  her  voice, 
An  echo  from  the  grave. 

She  was  a  gentle  creature, 

Of  raven  eye  and  tress, 
And  dovelike  were  the  tones  that  breathed 

Her  bosom's  tenderness; — 
Save  when  some  quick  emotion 

The  warm  blood  strongly  sent 
To  revel  in  her  olive  cheek, 

So  richly  eloquent. 

I  said  Consumption  smote  her, 

And  the  healer's  art  was  vain  ; 
But  she  was  an  Indian  maiden, 

So   none  deplor'd  her  nain: — 
None,  save  that  widow'd  moriier. 

Who  now,  by  her  open  to  mo 
Is  writhing  like  the  smitten  wretch 

Whom  judgment  marks  tor  uoom. 

Alas  !  that  lowly  cabin, 

That  couch  beside  the  wall, 
That  seat  beneath  the  mantling  vine, 

They're  lone  and  empty  all. 
What  hand  shall  pluck  the  tall,  green  corn, 

That  ripeneth  on  the  plain, 
Since  she,  for  whom  the  board  was  spread. 

Must  ne'er  return  again? 

Rest,  rest,  thou  Indian  maiden ! — 
Nor  let  thy  murmuring  shade 


2   0  THE  GIRL'S  READING-BOOK. 

Grieve  that  those  pale-brow  d  ones  with  scorn 

Thy  burial-rite  survey'd ; — 
There's  many  a  king,  whose  funeral 

Ablack-rob'd  realm  shall  see, 
For  whom  no  tear  of  grief  is  shed. 

Like  that  which  falls  for  thee. 

Yes,  rest  thee,  forest-maiden ! 

Beneath  thy  native  tree  ; 
The  proud  may  boast  their  little  day, 

Then  sink  to  dust  like  thee ; 
But  there's  many  a  one  whose  itinera! 

With  nodding  plumes  may  De, 
Whom  Nature  nor  affection  mourn, 

As  now  thev  mourn  tor  tuee. 


i 

the  girl's  reading-hook.  227 

THE  CREATOR  EVER  PRESENT. 

See,  how  tr>3  year  in  changeful  garb  appears, — 

First  m  its  cloudy  mantle,  moist  with  showers, 
Mo2i  like  a  timid  child,  'mid  smiles  and  tears; 

Next,  as  a  blooming  maiden  crowned  with  flowers ; 
Then  like  a  matron  lulling  infant  hours 

To  gentle  sleep,  with  soft,  melodious  chime; 
Then  weak  and  hoary,  with  enfeebled  powers, 

And  bent  beneath  the  wintry  hand  of  time; 
And  last,  with  magic  strange,  renews  her  early 
prime. 

But  still,  where'er  the  varying  seasons  tread, 

Whether  with  songs  of  vernal  birds  they  rove, 
Or  freshly  deck  the  hillock's  grassy  head, 

Or  in  the  reapers  dance  rejoicing  move, 
Or  strew  with  falling  leaves  the  solemn  grove ; 

Still  to  the  thoughtful  eye  their  change  is  fair, 
And  still  they  claim  the  grateful  lay  of  Jove 

From  the  meek  soul,  that  feels  its  Maker's  care, 
Beholds  him  in  his  works,  and  joys  to  praise  him 
there. 

Thou  art  in  every  place,  Being  Supreme  ! — 
Best  seen  and  worshipp'd  in  thy  court  above; 

Yet  here,  on  earth,  thy  countenance  doth  beam 
With  rays  of  terror,  majesty,  and  love, 

And  joys  unspeakable  thy  smile  doth  move; 
Yet  none  may  veil  him  from  thy  piercing  sight^ 

Escape  thy  hand,  or  from  thy  presence  rove, 


228  the  girl's  reading-book. 

Or  hide  in  secret  cells,  close  wrapp'd  in  night, — 
For  unto  thee,  the  darkness  shineth  as  the  light. 

Thou  dwellest  where  the  curtain'd  whir1  winds  hide, 

Where  the  arm'd  thunder  walks  its  awfiu  "ound, 
Thou  on  the  tempest  of  the  night  dost  ride, 

Flames  mark  thy  path,  and  clouds  thy  car  sur 
round, 
And  winds  are  rais'd,  and  mighty  billows  sound, 

While  from  thine  eye  the  winged  lightnings  part; 
Thou  in  the  highest  arch  of  heaven  art  found, 

In  the  dark  regions  of  the  earth  thou  art, 
And  in  the  humble  cell  of  the  repentant  heart. 

If  e'er  the  storms  of  life,  with  fearful  rage, 

Upon  my  lone,  unshelter'd  head  should  blow, 
Or  trembling  down  the  slippery  steep  of  age, 

My  weak  and  unsupported  footsteps  go, 
My  locks  all  white  with  weariness  and  wo, 

Eternal  Father,  and  Eternal  Friend, 
Still  let  my  bosom  at  thy  presence  glow, 

Still  let  my  trusting  prayer  to  thee  ascend, 
And  ever  to  my  wants  thy  kind  compassions  lent* 


TaE  girl's  reading-book.  229 


THE  VILLAGE. 


The  farmer,  fill'd  with  honest  pleasure,  sees 
His  orchards  blushing  in  the  fervid  breeze, 
His  bleating  flocks,  the  shearer's  care  that  need. 
His  waving  woods,  the  wintry  hearth  to  feed, 
His  patient  steers,  that  break  the  yielding  soil, 
His  hardy  sons,  who  share  their  father's  toil, 
The  ripening  fields,  for  joyous  harvest  drest, 
And  the  white  spire  that  points  a  world  of  rest. 

His  thrifty  mate,  solicitous  to  bear 
An  equal  burden  in  the  yoke  of  care, 
With  vigorous  arm,  the  flying  shuttle  heaves, 
Or  from  the  press  the  golden  cheese  receives; 
Her  pastime,  when  the  daily  task  is  o'er, 
With  apron  clean,  to  seek  her  neighbour's  door; 
Partake  the  friendly  feast,  with  social  glow, 
Exchange  the  news,  or  make  the  stocking  grow, — 
Then  hale  and  cheerful,  to  her  home  repair, 
When  Sol's  slant  ray  renews  her  evening  care, 
Press  the  full  udder  for  her  children's  meal, 
Rock  the  tir'd  babe,  and  wake  the  tuneful  wheel. 

See, — toward  yon  dome  where  village  science  dwells 
When  the  church-clock  its  warning  summons  swells 
What  tiny  feet  the  well-known  path  explore, 
And  gayly  gather  from  each  rustic  door. 
The  new-wean'd  child,  with  murmuring  tone  pro- 
ceeds, 
Whom  her  scarce  taller  baby-brother  leads, 


JStJU  THE  GIRL'S  READING-BOOK. 

Transferr'd  as  burdens,  that  the  housewife's  care 
May  tend  the  dairy,  or  the  fleece  prepare. 

Light-hearted  group,  who  carol  loud  and  high, 
Bright  daisies  cull,  or  chase  the  butterfly, 
Till  by  some  traveller's  wheel  arous'd  from  play, 
The  stiff  salute  with  glance  demure  they  pay, 
Bare  the  curl'd  brow,  or  stretch  the  sunburnt  hand, 
The  simple  homage  of  an  artless  land. 

The  stranger  marks  amid  their  joyous  line, 
The  little  baskets  whence  they  hope  to  dine, 
•And  larger  books,  as  if  their  dexterous  art, 
Dealt  most  nutrition  to  the  noblest  part : — 
Long  may  it  be,  ere  luxury  teach  the  shame 
To  starve  the  mind,  and  bloat  the  unwieldy  frame. 

Scorn  not  this  lowly  race,  ye  sons  of  pride, 
Their  joys  disparage,  nor  their  hopes  deride  ; 
From   germs  like    these    have  mighty   statesmen 

sprung.. 
Of  prudent  counsel  and  persuasive  tongue; 
Unblenching  souls,  who  ruled  the  willing  throng, 
Their  well-braced  nerves  by  early  labour  strong ; 
Inventive  minds,  a  nation's  wealth  that  wrought, 
And  white-haired  sages,  sold  to  studious  thought; 
Chiefs,  whose  bold  step  the  field  of  battle  trod, 
And  holy  men,  who  fed  the  flock  of  God. 

Here,  'mid  the  graves  by  time  so  sacred  made, 
The  poor,  lost  Indian  slumbers  in  the  shade, — 
He,  whose  canoe  with  arrowy  swiftness  clave 


the  girl's  reading-book.  231 

In  ancient  days  yon  pure,  cerulean  wave  ; 
Son  of  that  Spirit,  whom  in  storms  he  traced. 
Through  darkness  followed,  and  in  death  embraced, 
He  sleeps  an  outlaw  'mid  his  forfeit  land, 
And  grasps  the  anew  in  his  mouldered  hand 

Here,  too,  our  patriot  sires  with  honour  rest, 

In  Freedom's  cause  who  bared  the  valiant  breast ; — 

Sprung  from  their  half-drawn  furrow,  as  the  cry 

Of  threatened  liberty  went  thrilling  by, 

Looked  to  their  God,  and  reared,  in  bulwark  round, 

Breasts  free  from  guile,  and  hands  with  toil  em- 

brown'd, 
And  bade  a  monarch's  thousand  banners  yield — 
Firm  at  the  plough,  and  glorious  in  the  field; 
Lo !  here  they  rest,  who  every  danger  braved, 
Unmarked,  untrophied,  'mid  the  soil  they  saved. 

Round  scenes  like  these  doth  warm  remembrance 

glide, 
Where  emigration  rolls  its  ceaseless  tide, 
On  western  wilds,  which  thronging  hordes  explore, 
Or  ruder  Erie's  serpent-haunted  shore, 
Or  far  Huron,  by  unshorn  forests  crowned, 
Or  red  Missouri's  unfrequented  bound. 

The  exile  there,  when  midnight  shades  invade, 
Couch'd  in  his  hut,  or  camping  on  the  glade, 
Starts  from  his  dream,  to  catch,  in  echoes  clear, 
The  boatman's  song  that  charmed  his  boyish  ear; 
While  the  sad  mother  'mid  her  children's  mirth. 
Paints  with  fond  tears  a  parent's  distant  hearth, 


232  the  girl's  reading-book. 

Or  cheers  her  rustic  babes  with  tender  tales 
Of  thee,  blest  village,  and  thy  velvet  vales; 
Her  native  cot,  where  luscious  berries  swell, 
The  simple  school,  and  Sabbath's  tuneful  bell; 
And  smiles  to  see  the  infant  soui  expand, 
With  proud  devotion  for  that  father-land. 


■ 


THE  GIRL  S  READING-BOOK.  233 


THE  EMIGRANT'S  DAtJGHTER. 

"  The  way  is  long," — the  father  said, 
While  through  the  western  wild  he  sped, 

With  eager  searching  eye. 
"  Cheer  ye,  my  babes," — the  mother  cried, 
And  drew  them  closer  to  her  side, 

As  frown'd  the  evening  sky. 

Just  then,  within  the  thicket  rude, 
A  log  rear'd  cabin's  roof  they  view'd, 

And  its  low  shelter  blest ; 
On  the  rough  floor  their  simple  bed, 
In  haste  and  weariness,  they  spread, 

And  laid  them  down  to  rest. 

On  leathern  hinge  the  doors  were  hung, 
Undeck'd  with  glass  the  casement  swung, 

The  smoke-wreath  stain'd  the  wall; 
Yet  here  they  found  their  only  home, 
Who  once  had  rul'd  the  spacious  dome 

And  pac'd  the  pictur'd  hall. 

But  hearts  with  pure  affections  warm, 
Unmurmuring  at  the  adverse  storm, 

Did  in  that  cell  abide; 
And  there  the  wife  her  husband  cheer'd, 
And  there  her  little  ones  she  rear'd, 

And  there  in  hope  she  died. 

The  lonely  man  still  plough'd  the  soil, 
Tho'  she,  who  long  had  sooth'd  his  toil, 
20* 


234  the  cirl's  reading-book. 

No  more  partook  his  care, 
But  in  her  place  a  daughter  rose, 
As  from  some  broken  stem  there  grows 

A  blossom  fresh  and  fair. 

With  tireless  hand  the  board  she  spread, 
The  Holy  Book  at  evening  read, 

And  when,  with  serious  air, 
He  saw  her  bend  so  sweetly  mild 
And  lull  to  sleep  the  moaning  child, 

He  blest  her  in  his  prayer. 

But  stern  disease  his  footstep  staid, 
And  down  the  woodman's  axe  he  laid — 

The  fever-flame  was  high ; 
No  more  the  forest  fear'd  his  stroke, 
He  fell,  as  falls  the  smitten  oak. 

The  emigrant  must  die. 

His  youngest  girl,  his  fondest  pride, 
His  baby  when  the  mother  died, 

How  desolate  she  stands  ; 
While  gazing  on  his  death-struck  eye 
His  kneeling  sons  with  anguish  cry. 

And  clasp  his  clenching  hands. 

Who  hastes  his  throbbing  head  to  hold  ? 
Who  bows  to  chafe  his  temples  cold  1 

In  beauty's  opening  prime  ; 
That  blessed  daughter,  meek  of  heart, 
Who,  for  his  sake,  a  matron's  part 

Had  borne  before  her  time. 


the  girl's  reading-book.  235 

That  gasp,  that  groan, — 'tis  o'er,  'tis  o'er, 
The  manly  breast  must  heave  no  more, 

The  heart  no  longer  pine; 
Oh,  Thou,  who  feecTst  the  raven's  nest, 
Confirm  once  more  thy  promise  blest, 

"  The  fatherless  are  mine." 


236  the  girl's  reading-book. 


THE  MOURNER. 


Wheels  o'er  the  pavement  roll'd,  and  a  slight  fona 
Just  in  the  bud  of  blushing  womanhood 
Reached  the  paternal  threshold.     Wrathful  night 
Muffled  the  timid  stars,  and  rain-drops  hung 
On  that  fair  creature's  rich  and  glossy  curls. 

She  stood  and  shiver'd,  but  no  mother's  hand 
Dry'd  those  damp  tresses,  and  with  warm  caress 
Sustain'd  the  weary  spirit.     No,  that  hand 
Was  with  the  cold,  dull  earth-worm. 

Gray  and  sad, 
The  tottering  nurse  rose  up  ;  and  that  old  man, 
The  soldier  servant,  who  had  train'd  the  steeds 
Of  her  slain  brothers  for  the  battle  field, 
Essay'd  to  lead  her  to  the  couch  of  pain, 
Where  her  sick  father  pined. 

Oft  had  he  yearn'd 
For  her  sweet  presence ;  oft,  in  midnight's  watcL 
Mus'd  of  his  dear  one's  smile,  till  dreams  restor'd 
The  dove-like  dalliance  of  her  ruby  lip 
Breathing  his  woes  away. 

While  distant  far, 
She,  patient  student,  bending  o'er  her  tasks, 
Toil'd  for  the  fruits  of  knowledge,  treasuring  stil: 
In  the  heart's  casket,  a  fond  father's  smile, 
And  the  pure  music  of  his  welcome  home, 
Rich  payment  of  her  labours. 

But  there  came 
A  summons  of  surprise,  and  on  the  wings 


237 

Of  filial  love  she  hasted. 

— 'Twas  too  late : 
The  lamp  of  life  still  burn'd,  yet  'twas  too  late. 
The  mind  had  passed  away,  and  who  could  call 
Its  wing  from  out  the  sky  ? 

For  the  embrace 
Of  strong  idolatry,  was  but  the  glare 
Of  a  fix'd,  vacant  eye.     Disease  had  dealt 
A  fell  assassin's  blow.     Oh  God !  the  blight 
That  fell  on  those  fresh  hopes,  when  all  in  vain 
The  passive  hand  was  grasp'd,  and  the  wide  halls 
Re-echoed  "father  !  father ! " 

Through  the  shades 
Of  that  long  silent  night,  she  sleepless  bent, 
Bathing  with  tireless  hand  the  unmoved  brow, 
And  the  death-pillow  smoothing.     When  fair  man 
Came  with  its  rose-tint  up,  she  shrieking  clasp'd 
Her  hands  in  joy,  for  its  reviving  ray 
Flush'd  that  worn  brow,  as  if  with  one  brief  trace 
Of  waken'd  intellect.     '  Twas  seeming  all : 
And  Hope's  fond  vision  faded  as  the  day 
Rode  on  in  glory. 

Eve  her  curtain  drew. 
And  found  that  pale  and  beautiful  watcher  there, 
Still  unreposing.     Restless  on  his  couch 
Toss'd  the  sick  man.     Cold  Lethargy  had  steep'd 
Its  last  dead  poppy  in  his  heart's  red  stream, 
And  agony  was  stirring  Nature  up 
To  struggle  with  her  foe. 


238  the  girl's  reading-book. 

"  Father  in  Heaven ! 
Oh,  let  him  sleep  !" — sigh'd  an  imploring  voice; 
And  then  she  ran  to  hush  the  measur'd  tick 
Of  the  dull  night-clock,  and  to  scare  the  owl 
That  clinging  to  the  casement  hoarsely  pour'd 
A  boding  note.     But  soon  from  that  lone  couch 
'f'hick-eoming  groans  announce  the  foe  that  strikes 
But  once. 

They  bare  the»  fainting  girl  away  ; 
And  paler  than  that  ashen  corse,  her  face, 
Half  by  a  flood  of  ebon  tresses  hid, 
Droop'd  o'er  her  nurse's  shoulder.     It  was  sad 
To  see  a  young  heart  breaking,  wrhile  the  old 
Sank  down  to  rest. 

There  was  another  change. 
The  mournful  bell  toll'd  out  the  funeral  hour, 
And  groups  came  gathering  to  the  gate  where  stood 
The  sable  hearse.     Friends  throng'd  with  heavy 

heart, 
And  curious  villagers,  intent  to  scan 
The  lordly  mansion,  and  cold  worldly  men, 
Even  o'er  the  coffin  and  the  warning  shroud 
Revolving  selfish  schemes. 

But  one  was  there, 
To  whom  all  earth  could  render  nothing  back, 
Like  that  pale  piece  of  clay.     Calmly  she  stood 
As  marble  statue.     Not  one  trickling  tear, 
Or  quivering  of  the  eye-lid,  told  she  liv'd, 
Or  tasted  sorrow.     The  old  house-dog  came, 


the  girl's  reading-book.  239 

Pressing  his  rough  head  to  her  snowy  palm 
All  unreprov'd. 

He  for  his  master  mourn'd. 
And  could  she  spurn  that  faithful  friend,  who  oft 
His  shaggy  length  thro'  many  a  fireside  hour 
Stretch'd  at  her  father's  feet  ?  who  round  his  bed 
Of  sickness  watch'd  with  wakeful, wondering  eye 
Of  changeless  sympathy  ?     No,  round  his  neck 
Her  infant  arms  had  clasp'd,  and  still  he  rais'd 
His  noble  front  beside  her,  proud  to  guard 
The  last,  lov'd  relic  of  his  master's  house. 

The  deadly  calmness  of  that  mourner's  brow 
Was  a  deep  riddle  to  the  lawless  thought 
Of  whispering  gossips.     Of  her  sire  they  spake, 
Who  suffer'd  not  the  winds  of  heaven  to  touch 
The  tresses  of  his  darling,  and  who  dream'd 
In  the  warm  passion  of  his  heart's  sole  love 
She  was  a  mate  for  angels.     Bold  they  gaz'd 
Upon  her  tearless  cheek,  and  murmuring  said, 
"How  strange  that  he  should  be  so  lightly  mourn'd." 

Oh  woman!  oft  misconstrued  !  the  pure  pearls 

Lie  all  too  deep  in  thy  heart's  secret  well, 

For  the  unpausing  and  impatient  hand 

To  win  them  forth.    In  that  meek  maiden's  breast 

Sorrow  and  loneliness  sank  darkly  down, 

Though  the  blanch'd  lip  breath'd  out  no  boisterous 

plaint 
Of  common  grief. 


840  the  girl's  reading-book. 

,  Even  on  to  life's  decline, 

Amid  the  giddy  round  of  prosperous  years, 
The  birth  of  new  affections,  and  the  joys 
That  cluster  round  earth's  favourites,  there  walkM 
Still  at  her  side,  the  image  of  her  sire. 
As  in  that  hour  when  his  cold  glazing  eye 
Met  her's,  and  knew  her  not.    When  her  full  cup 
Perchance  had  foam'd  with  pride,  that  icy  glance, 
Checking  its  effervescence,  taught  her  soul 
The  chasten'd  wisdom  of  attemper'd  bliss. 


the  girl's  reading-book.  241 


FAREWELL  OF  THE  SOUL  TO  THE  BODV 

Companion  dear!  the  hour  draws  nigh, 
The  sentence  speeds — to  die,  to  die ; 
So  long  in  mystic  union  held, 
So  close  with  strong  embrace  compell'd, 
How  can'st  thou  bear  the  dread  decree, 
That  strikes  thy  clasping  nerves  from  me  1 

To  him  who  on  this  mortal  shore, 
The  same  encircling  vestment  wore, 
To  Him  I  look,  to  Him  I  bend,  ♦ 

To  Him  thy  shuddering  frame  commend. 

If  I  have  ever  caused  thee  pain, 
The  throbbing  breast,  the  burning  brain, 
With  cares  and  vigils  turn'd  thee  pale, 
And  scorn'd  thee  when  thy  strength  did  fail 
Forgive  !  Forgive !  thy  task  doth  cease, 
Friend  !  Lover  !  let  us  part  in  peace. 

That  thou  didst  sometimes  check  my  force, 
Or  trifling  stay  mine  upward  course, 
Or  lure  from  Heaven  my  wavering  trust. 
Or  bow  my  drooping  wing  to  dust, — 
I  blame  thee  not  j  the  strife  is  done, 
I  knew  thou  wert  the  weaker  one, 
The  vase  of  earth,  the  trembling  clod, 
Constraint  to  hold  the  breath  of  God. 
21 


£4$  THE   GIRL'S   READING-BOOK. 

Well  hast  thou  in  my  service  wrought, 
Thy  brow  hath  mirror'd  forth  my  thought; 
To  w^ar  my  smile  thy  lip  hath  glow'd, 
Thy  tear  to  speak  my  sorrows  flow'd  ; 
Thine  ear  hath  borne  me  rich  supplies 
Of  sweetly  varied  melodies  ', 
Thy  hands  my  prompted  deeds  have  done. 
Thy  feet  upon  my  errands  run  ; — 
Yes,  thou  hast  mark'd  my  bidding  well, 
Faithful  and  true  !  farewell,  farewell. 

Go  to  thy  rest.    A  quiet  bed 
Meek  mother  Earth  with  flowers  shall  spread. 
Where  I  no  more  thy  sleep  can  break 
Wtth  fever'd  dream,  nor  rudely  wake 
Thy  wearied  eye. 

Oh  quit  thy  hold, 
For  thou  art  faint,  and  chill,  and  cold; 
And  long  thy  grasp  and  groan  of  pain 
Have  bound  me  pitying  in  thy  chain, 
Tho'  angels  urge  me  hence  to  soar, 
Where  I  shall  share  thine  ills  no  more. 

Yet  we  shall  meet.     To  soothe  thy  pain, 
Remember,  we  shall  meet  again  j 
Quell  with  this  hope  the  victor's  sting, 
And  keep  it  as  a  signet-ring. 
When  the  dire  worm  shall  pierce  thy  breast, 
And  nought  but  ashes  mark  thy  rest, 
When  stars  shall  fall,  and  skies  grow  dark, 
And  proud  suns  quench  their  glow-worm  spark 
Keep  thou  that  hope,  to  light  thy  gloom, 
Till  the  last  trumpet  rends  the  tomb. 


THE  girl's  reading-book.  243 

Then  shalt  thou  glorious  rise,  and  fair 
Nor  spot,  nor  stain,  nor  wrinkle  bear, 
And  I  with  hovering  wing  elate, 
The  bursting  of  thy  bonds  shall  wait. 
And  breathe  the  welcome  of  the  sky 
"  No  more  to  part,  no  more  to  die, 
Co-heir  of  Immortality." 


